[LIBRARY] 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


LOUISA    MAY    ALCOTT 

At  the  Age  of  Twenty. 

FKOM    AN    fNPUBLISHED    PORTRAIT   IN    POSSESSION   OF    MRS.    PRATT. 


of    l^ouisa    /T)ay    /^Kott, 
Creepleaf  U/tyittier,    apd   Robert 

Errrm^TiJfeSaa  .  . 

to^etl^er    u/itf;     seu^ral 
po^ms.      Illustrated. 


By 

(T)aria  S.  porter. 


published  for  tl?e  /^utJ^or  by 
J^eu;   Er?<$lar}d   /r\a<$azir7e  Corporation. 

1893- 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 
I!v  MARIA  S.  PORTER. 


CONTENTS. 


Recollections  of  Louisa  May  Alcott.     Illustrated     .....         5 

Recollections  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.     Illustrated        .         .         .  31 

Robert  Browning  in  his  Home.     Illustrated   .          .         .          .         .  .45 

Memorial  Poems  : 

Louisa  May  Alcott       ........  54 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier         .          .         .          .          .         .  -55 

Robert  Browning         ........  57 

Thomas  William  Parsons.      With  portrait         .          .          .  59 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.* 


O  name  in  American  literature  lias  more  thrilled  the 
hearts  of  the  young  people  of  this  generation  than  that 
of  Louisa  May  Alcott.  What  a  life  of  beneficence 
and  self-abnegation  was  hers  !  How  distinctively  was 
her  character  an  outcome  of  the  best  New  England 
ancestry  !  In  her  veins  ran  the  blood  of  the  Quincys, 
the  Mays,  the  Alcotts,  and  the  Sewalls.  What  better  inheritance 
could  one  have?  How  important  a  factor  in  life  is  heredity!  One  is 
so  enriched,  strengthened,  and  upborne  by  a  good  ancestry,  or  some 
times,  alas !  so  handicapped,  baffled,  and  utterly  defeated  in  the 
conflicts  of  life  by  bad  hereditary  influence,  that  when  one  has  so  fine 
an  inheritance  as  was  Louisa  Alcott's,  one  should  be  thankful  for  it 
and  rejoice  in  it  as  she  did. 

In  looking  back  upon  Miss  Alcott's  life,  heroic  and  faithful  to  the 
end,  it  is  the  woman  \vho  interests  us  even  more  than  the  writer, 
whose  phenomenal  success  in  touching  the  hearts  of  old  and  young  is 
known  so  well  the  world  over.  "  Do  the  duty  that  lies  nearest,"  was 
her  life  motto,  and  to  its  fulfilment  were  given  hand  and  brain  and 
heart.  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  once  wrote  of  her,  "  Miss  Alcott  is 
really  a  benefactor  of  households."  Truer  words  were  never  written. 
She  was  proud  of  her  ancestors.  I  remember  a  characteristic  expres 
sion  of  hers  as  we  sat  together  one  morning  in  June,  18/6,  in  the  Old 
South  Meeting-House,  where  was  assembled  an  immense  audience 
stirred  to  a  white  heat  of  patriotic  enthusiasm  by  the  fervid  eloquence 
of  Wendell  Phillips,  whose  plea  to  save  that  sacred  landmark  from 
the  vandals  who  were  read}'  to  destroy  it  can  never  be  forgotten.  At 
the  conclusion  of  Phillips's  speech  she  turned  to  me,  her  face  aglow 

*  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  New  England  Magazine  Corporation. 

5 


with  emotion,  and  said,  "  I  am  proud  of  my  forcmothers  and  fore 
fathers,  and  especially  of  my  Sewall  blood,  even  if  the  good  old  judge 
did  condemn  the  witches  to  be  hanged."  After  a  moment  of  silence 
she  added,  "  I  am  glad  that  he  felt  remorse,  and  had  the  manliness 
to  confess  it.  He  was  made  of  the  right  stuff."  Of  this  ancestor, 
Whittier  wrote  in  "  The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sevvall  "  :  - 

"  Stately  and  slow,  with  solemn  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall,  the  good  and  wise; 
His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought." 

Of  the  name  of  Quincy,  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  has  written   in  "  Dorothy  O"  :  — 

"  Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn, 
Dorothy  O  was  a  lady  born  ! 
Ay  !   since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
Amos  Bronson  Alcott.  The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son.'' 

Miss  Alcott  began  to  write  at  a  very  early  age.  Her  childhood 
and  early  girlhood  were  passed  in  the  pure  sweet  atmosphere  of  a 
home  where  love  reigned.  Louisa  and  her  sister  Anna  were  educated 
in  a  desultory  and  fragmentary  manner,  or,  perhaps  one  should  say, 
without  system.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alcott,  the  two  Misses  Peabody, 
Thoreau,  Miss  Mary  Russell,  and  Mr.  Lane  had  a  share  in  their  educa 
tion.  Mrs.  Hawthorne  taught  Anna  to  read,  and  1  think  Louisa  once 
spoke  of  her  to  me  as  her  own  first  teacher. 

Mrs.  Alcott  was  a  remarkable  woman,  a  great  reader,  with  a  broad 
practical  mind,  deep  love  of  humanity,  wide  charity,  untiring  energy, 
and  a  highly  sensitive  organization,  married  to  a  man  whom  she  de 
votedly  loved,  who  was  absolutely  devoid  of  practical  knowledge  of 
life,  an  idealist  of  the  extremcst  type.  With  the  narrowest  means,  her 
trials,  perplexities,  and  privations  were  very  great,  but  she  bore  them 
all  with  heroic  courage  and  fidelity,  and  with  unwavering  affection  for 
her  husband.  Louisa  early  recognized  all  this.  She  soon  developed  the 

6 


distinguishing  traits  of  both  father  and  mother.  Emerson,  soon  after 
he  made  Mr.  Alcott's  acquaintance,  recognized  his  consummate  ability 
as  a  conversationalist,  and  was  through  life  his  most  loyal  friend. 
Louisa  was  very  proud  of  her  father's  intellectual  acquirements,  and  it 
was  most  interesting  to  hear  her  tell  of  the  high  tributes  paid  him  by 
some  of  the  great  thinkers  of  the  age.  In  a  note  to  me  in  October,  1 882, 
just  after  her  father  had  been  stricken 
with  paralysis,  she  wrote :  — 

"  My  poor  dear  father  lies  dumb  and  helpless 
lie  seems  to  know  us  all;  and  it  is  so  pathetic  to  see 
my  handsome,  hale,  active  old  father  changed  at  one 
fell  blow  into  this  helpless  wreck.  You  know  that  he 
wrote  those  forty  remarkable  sonnets  last  winter,  and 
these,  with  his  cares  as  Dean  of  the  School  of  Phi 
losophy  and  his  many  lectures  there,  were  enough  to 
break  down  a  man  of  eighty-three  years.  I  continually 
protested  and  warned  him  against  overwork  and  tax 
ation  of  the  brain,  but  'twas  of  no  avail.  Wasn't  1 
doing  the  same  thing  myself?  I  did  not  practise  what 
I  preached,  and  indeed  I  have  great  cause  for  fear  that 
I  may  be  some  day  stricken  down  as  he  is.  He  seems 
so  tired  of  living;  his  active  mind  beats  against  the 
prison  bars.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  what  Mr.  Emerson 
once  said  of  him  to  me  !  '  Louisa,  your  father  could  have  talked  with  Plato.'  Was  not 
that  praise  worth  having?  Since  then  I  have  often  in  writing  addressed  him  as  '  My  dear 
old  Plato.'  " 

Just  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Correspondence  of  Carlyle  and 
Kmerson,"  I  found  her  reading  it  one  day.  Her  face  was  radiant  with 
delight  as  she  said  :  "  Let  me  read  you  what  Kmerson  wrote  to  Carlyle 
just  before  father  went  to  England :  '  I  shall  write  again  soon,  for 
Bronson  Alcott  will  probably  go  to  England  in  about  a  month,  and 
him  I  shall  surely  send  you,  hoping  to  atone  by  his  great  nature  for 
many  smaller  ones  that  have  craved  to  see  you.'"  Again  she  read: 
"  '  He  is  a  great  man  and  is  made  for  what  is  greatest.'  .  .  .  '  Alcott 
has  returned  to  Concord  with  his  wife  and  children  and  taken  a  cottage 
and  an  acre  of  ground,  to  get  his  living  by  the  help  of  God  and  his 
own  spade.  I  see  that  some  of  the  education  people  in  England  have 
a  school  called  "  Alcott  House,"  after  my  friend.  At  home  here  he  is 
despised  and  rejected  of  men  as  much  as  ever  was  Pestalo//,i.  But  the 
creature  thinks  and  talks,  and  I  am  proud  of  my  neighbor.'  " 


Mrs.   Alcott. 


ORCHARD  HOUSE,  CONCORD. 
The    Home   of  the    "  Little   Women." 

Carlylc's  estimate  of  Alcott,  although  not  as  high  as  Kmerson's, 
was  a  fairly  appreciative  one.  He  wrote  to  Kmerson  after  Alcott's 
visits  to  him  :  — 

"lie  is  a  genial,  innocent,  simple-hearted  man,  of  much  natural  intelligence  and  good 
ness,  with  an  air  of  rusticity,  veracity,  and  dignity  withal,  which  in  many  ways  appeals  to  me. 
The  good  Alcott,  with  his  long,  lean  face  and  figure,  his  gray,  worn  temples  and  mild  radiant 
eyes,  all  bent  on  saving  the  world  by  a  return  to  the  (Jolden  Age;  he  comes  before  one  like  a 
kind  Don  Ouixote,  whom  nobody  can  even  laugh  at  without  loving." 

Louisa,  after  reading  these  extracts,  taken  from  different  parts  of 
the  books,  said  with  emphasis:  "  It  takes  great  men  like  Kmerson  and 
Carlyle  and  Thoreau  to  appreciate  father  at  his  best."  She  always 
spoke  with  great  freedom  and  frankness  of  her  father's  lack  of  prac 
tical  ability ;  and  very  pathetic  were  some  of  the  stories  she  told  of 
her  own  early  struggles  to  earn  money  for  the  family  needs  ;  of  her 


strivings  to  smother  pride  while  staying  with  a  maternal  relative  who 
had  offered  her  a  home  for  the  winter  while  she  was  teaching  in  a 

t> 

small  private  school  in  Boston ;  and  of  her  indignation  when  Mr. 
Fields  said  to  her  father,  who  had  taken  a  story  of  hers  to  him  to 
read  with  the  hope  that  it  might  be  accepted  for  the  Atlantic  :  "  Tell 
Louisa  to  stick  to  her  teaching ;  she  can  never  succeed  as  a  writer  !  " 
This  message,  she  said,  made  her  exclaim  to  her  father:  "Tell  him  I 
will  succeed  as  a  writer,  and  some  day  I  shall  write  for  the  Atlantic!" 
Not  long  afterward  a  story  of  hers  was  accepted  by  the  Atlantic  and 
a  check  for  fifty  dollars  sent  her.  In  telling  me  of  this  she  said  :  "  I 
called  it  my  happy  money,  for  with  it  I  bought  a  second-hand  carpet 
for  our  parlor,  a  bonnet  for  Anna,  some  blue  ribbons  for  May,  some 
shoes  and  stockings  for  myself,  and  put  what  was  left  into  the  Micaw- 
ber  Railroad,  the  Harold  Skimpole  Three  Per  Cents  and  the  Alcott 
Sinking  Fund." 

One  merry  talk  about  the  experiences  of  her  girlhood  and  early 
womanhood,  with  several  pathetic  stories  that  she  told  me  one 
moonlight  summer  evening,  as  we  floated  down  the  Concord  River, 
made  a  profound  impression,  and  I  recall  them  with  great  distinctness. 

"  When  I  was  a  girl  of  eighteen  or  thereabouts,"  she  said,  "  I  had 
very  fine  dark  brown  hair,  thick  and  long,  almost  touching  the  floor  as 
I  stood.  At  a  time  when  the  family  needs  were  great,  and  discourage 
ment  weighed  heavily  upon  us,  I  went  to  a  barber,  let  down  my  hair, 
and  asked  him  how  much  money  he  would  give  me  for  it.  When  he 
told  me  the  sum,  it  seemed  so  large  to  me  that  I  then  and  there  de 
termined  I  would  part  with  my  most  precious  possession  if  during 
the  next  week  the  clouds  did  not  lift." 

This  costly  gift,  however,  was  not  laid  upon  the  family  altar  by  the 
heroic  girl.  A  friend,  who  was  ever  ready  to  extend  an  unobtrusive 
helping  hand  when  it  was  needed,  came  to  the  rescue.  Louisa,  in 
relating  this,  said,  "  That  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  helped  father, 
nor  was  it  indeed  the  last." 

Another  incident  that  she  told  me  that  same  evening  in  her  inimi 
table  way,  with  all  its  amusing  and  pathetic  details,  revealed  to  me  how 
supreme  was  her  loyalty  and  devotion  to  her  family,  and  above  all  to 
her  mother. 


THE  PORCH  OF  THE  ORCHARD  HOUSE. 
From  a  Drawing  by  May  Alcott  Nieriker. 


In  1850,  when  Louisa  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  Mrs.  Alcott  had, 
with  the  advice  of  friends,  taken  a  position  as  visitor  to  the  poor  in 
Boston.  She  had  also  opened  an  intelligence  office,  where  she  often 
assisted  gentlefolk,  reduced  from  affluence  to  poverty,  to  situations 
where,  without  an  entire  sacrifice  of  pride,  they  could  earn  an  honest 
independence.  One  day  as  Louisa  was  sitting  in  the  office  sewing  on 
some  flannel  garments  for  the  poor,  under  her  mother's  supervision, 
a  tall  man,  evidently  from  his  garb  a  clergyman,  entered  and  said  that 
he  came  to  procure  a  companion  for  his  invalid  sister  and  aged  father, 
lie  described  the  situation  as  a  most  desirable  one,  adding  that  the 
companion  would  be  asked  to  read  to  them  and  perform  the  light 
duties  of  the  household  that  had  formerly  devolved  upon  his  sister, 
who  was  a  martyr  to  neuralgia.  The  companion  would  be  in  every 
respect  treated  as  one  of  the  family,  and  all  the  comforts  of  home 
would  be  hers. 

Mrs.  Alcott,  who,  in  spite  of  many  bitter  experiences  in  the  past, 
never  lost  her  faith  in  people  and  was  rather  too  apt  to  take  them  for 
what  they  seemed  to  be,  tried  to  think  of  some  one  who  would  be 
glad  of  so  pleasant  a  home  as  described.  She  turned  to  Louisa  and 
asked  her  if  she  could  suggest  any  one.  The  reply  came  at  once, 
"Only  myself!  "  Great  was  her  mother's  surprise,  and  she  exclaimed, 
"  Do  you  really  mean  it,  dear?  "  "  I  really  do,  if  Mr.  R —  -  thinks  I 
would  suit."  The  clergyman  smiled  and  said,  "  I  am  sure  you  would, 
and  I  feel  that  if  we  can  secure  you,  we  shall  be  most  fortunate." 

When  Mrs.  Alcott  had  recovered  from  her  surprise,  she  prudently 
asked  him  what  wages  would  be  paid.  The  smooth  reply  was  that 
the  word  "  wages"  must  not  be  used,  but  any  one  who  lent  youth  and 
strength  to  a  feeble  household  would  be  paid  and  well  paid,  and  with 
another  smile  he  took  his  leave.  Then  Mrs.  Alcott  asked,  "  Arc  you 
in  earnest  in  engaging  to  go  out  for  a  month  to  live  with  these  utter 
strangers  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Louisa.  "Why  not  try  the  experiment? 
It  can  but  fail,  as  the  teaching  and  sewing  and  acting  and  writing  have. 
I  do  housework  at  home  for  love;  why  not  there  for  money?  " 

"  But  you  know,  clear,"  her  mother  replied,  "  it  is  going  out  to  ser 
vice,  even  if  you  are  called  a  companion." 


"  I  don't  care.  Every  kind  of  work  that  is  paid  for  is  service.  It 
is  rather  a  downfall  to  give  up  trying  to  be  a  Siddons  or  a  Fanny 
Kemble,  and  become  a  servant  at  the  beck  and  call  of  people  ;  but 
what  of  it?  "  "  All  my  highly  respectable  relatives,"  said  Louisa,  "  held 
up  their  hands  in  holy  horror  when  I  left  the  paternal  roof  to  go  to 
my  place  of  servitude,  as  they  called  it,  and  said,  '  Louisa  Alcott  will 
disgrace  her  name  by  what  she  is  doing.'  But  despite  the  lamenta 
tions  and  laughter  of  my  sisters,  I  got  my  small  wardrobe  ready,  and 
after  embracing  the  family,  with  firmness  started  for  my  new  home." 

She  had  promised  to  stay  four  weeks  ;  but,  after  a  few  days,  she- 
found  that  instead  of  being  a  companion  to  the  invalid  sister,  who  was 
a  nonentity,  while  the  father  passed  his  days  in  a  placid  doze,  she  was 
called  upon  to  perform  the  most  menial  services,  made  a  mere  house 
hold  drudge,  or,  to  use  her  own  expression,  "  a  galley  slave."  "Then," 
said  she,  "  I  pocketed  my  pride,  looked  the  situation  squarely  in  the 
face,  and  determined  I  would  stay  on  to  the  bitter  end.  My  word 
must  be  as  good  as  my  bond."  By  degrees  all  the  hard  work  of  the 
family  was  imposed  upon  her,  for  the  sister  was  too  feeble  to  help  or 
even  to  direct  in  any  way,  and  the  servant  was  too  old  to  do  anything 
but  the  cooking,  so  that  even  the  roughest  work  was  hers.  Having 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  when  the  month  was  over,  she  brought  water 
from  the  well,  dug  paths  in  the  snow,  split  kindlings,  made  fires,  sifted 
ashes,  and  was  in  fact  a  veritable  Cinderella.  "  But,"  said  she,  "  I  did 
sometimes  rebel,  and  being  a  mortal  worm,  I  turned  now  and  then 
when  the  clergyman  trod  upon  me,  especially  in  the  matter  of  boot- 
blacking, —  that  was  too  much  for  my  good  blood  to  bear!  All  the 
Mays,  Sewalls,  and  Alcotts  of  the  past  and  present  appeared  before 
my  mind's  eye  ;  at  blacking  boots  I  drew  the  line  and  flatly  refused. 
That  evening  I  enjoyed  the  sinful  spectacle  of  the  reverend  bootblack 
at  the  task.  Oh,  what  a  long  month  that  was  !  And  when  I  an 
nounced  my  intention  of  leaving  at  its  end,  such  dismay  fell  upon  the 
invalid  sister,  that  I  consented  to  remain  until  my  mother  could  find  a 
substitute.  Three  weeks  longer  I  waited.  Two  other  victims  came, 
but  soon  left,  and  on  departing  called  me  a  fool  to  stay  another  hour. 
I  quite  agreed  with  them,  and  when  the  third  substitute  came,  clutched 
my  possessions,  and  said  I  should  go  at  once.  The  sister  wept,  the 


father  tremblingly  expressed  regret,  and  the  clergyman  washed  his 
hands  of  the  whole  affair  by  shutting  himself  in  his  study.  At  the 
last  moment,  Eliza,  the  sister,  nervously  tucked  a  small  pocket-book 
into  my  hand,  and  bade  me  good  by  with  a  sob.  The  old  servant 
gave  me  a  curious  look  as  I  went  away,  and  exclaimed,  '  Don't  blame 
us  for  anything;  some  folks  is  liberal  and  some  ain't!'  So  I  left 


I 


THE    WAYSIDE. 
From  a  Drawing  by  May  Alcott  Nieriker. 

the  house,  bearing  in  my  pocket  what  I  hoped  was,  if  not  a  liberal,  at 
least  an  honest  return  for  seven  weeks  of  the  hardest  work  I  ever  did. 
Unable  to  resist  the  desire  to  see  what  my  earnings  were,  I  opened 
my  purse  —  and  beheld  four  dollars  !  I  have  had  many  bitter  mo 
ments  in  my  life,  but  one  of  the  bitterest  was  then,  when  I  stood  in 
the  road  that  cold,  wind}'  day,  with  my  little  pocket-book  open,  and 

T3 


BUST   OF    MISS   ALCOTT. 
Made  by  Walton   Ricketson  for  the  Concord   Library. 


looked  from  my  poor,  chapped,  grimy,  chilblained  hands  to  the  paltry 
sum  that  had  been  considered  enough  to  pay  for  the  labor  they  had 
done.  I  went  home,  showed  my  honorable  wounds,  and  told  my  tale 
to  the  sympathetic  family.  The  four  dollars  were  returned,  and  one 
of  my  dear  ones  would  have  shaken  the  minister,  in  spite  of  his  cloth, 
had  he  crossed  his  path." 

This  experience  of  going  out  to  service  at  eighteen  made  so  pain 
ful  an  impression  upon  her  that  she  rarely  referred  to  it,  and  when  she 
did  so  it  was  with  heightened  color  and  tearful  eyes. 

Long  years  before  she  wrote  her  story  called  "  Transcendental 
Wild  Oats,"  she  had  told  me  in  her  humorous  way  of  the  family 
experiences  at  "  Fruitlands,"  as  the  community  established  by  Mr. 
Alcott  and  his  English  friend,  Mr.  Lane,  was  called.  In  1843,  when 
Louisa  was  eleven  years  of  age,  these  idealists  went  to  the  small  town 
of  Harvard,  near  Lancaster,  Massachusetts,  to  carry  out  their  theories. 
Mr.  Lane  was  to  be  the  patriarch  of  the  colony  of  latter-day  saints. 
Louisa,  in  speaking  of  her  father's  connection  with  this  movement, 
said  :  "  Father  had  a  devout  faith  in  the  ideal.  He  wanted  to  live  the 
highest,  purest  life,  to  plant  a  paradise  where  no  serpent  could  enter. 
Mother  was  unconverted,  but  true  as  steel  to  him,  following  wherever 
his  vagaries  led,  hoping  that  at  last  she  might,  after  many  wanderings, 
find  a  home  for  herself  and  children." 

The  diet  at  Fruitlands  was  strictly  vegetarian ;  no  milk,  butter, 
cheese,  or  meat  could  be  eaten  or  tasted  even  within  the  holy  pre 
cincts —  nothing  that  had  caused  death  or  wrong  to  man  or  beast. 
The  garments  must  be  of  linen,  because  those  made  from  wool  were 
the  result  of  the  use  of  cruel  shears  to  rob  the  sheep  of  their  wool, 
and  the  covering  of  the  silkworms  must  be  despoiled  to  make  silken 
ones.  The  bill  of  fare  was  bread,  porridge,  and  water  for  breakfast; 
bread,  vegetables,  and  water  for  dinner;  bread,  fruit,  and  water  for 
supper.  They  had  to  go  to  bed  with  the  birds,  because  candles,  for 
conscientious  reasons,  could  not  be  burnt, — the  "  inner  light"  must 
be  all-sufficient;  sometimes  pine  knots  were  used  when  absolutely 
necessary.  Meanwhile,  the  philosophers  sitting  in  the  moonlight  built 
with  words  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  or  in  the  starlight  wooed 
the  Oversoul,  and  lived  amid  metaphysical  mists  and  philanthropic 


pyrotechnics.  Mr.  Alcott  revelled  in  the  "  Newness,"  as  he  was  fond 
of  calling  their  new  life.  He  fully  believed  that  in  time  not  only 
Fruitlands,  but  the  whole  earth  would  become  a  happy  valley,  the 
Golden  Age  would  come;  and  toward  this  end  he  talked,  he  prophesied, 
he  worked  with  his  hands;  for  lie  was  in  dead  earnest,  his  was  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  soul  too  high  for  the  rough  usage  of  this  workaday 
world. 

In  the  mean  while,  with  Spartan  fortitude  Mrs.  Alcott  bore  the 
brunt  of  the  household  drudgery.  How  Louisa's  eyes  would  twinkle 
as  she  described  the  strange  methods  at  Fruitlands  !  "  One  day  in 

autumn  mother  thought  a  northeast 
storm  was  brewing.  The  grain  was 
ripe  and  must  be  gathered  before  the 
rain  came  to  ruin  it.  Some  call  of 
the  Oversoul  had  wafted  all  the  men 
away,  and  so  mother,  Anna,  a  son 
of  Mr.  Lane's,  and  I  must  gather  the 
grain  in  some  way.  Mother  had  it 
done  with  a  clothes-basket  and  a 
stout  Russia  linen  sheet.  Putting 
the  grain  into  the  basket  we  emptied 
it  upon  the  sheet,  and  taking  hold  of 
the  four  corners  carried  it  to  the 
barn." 

During  the  summer  Mr.  Kmerson  visited  them  and  wrote  thus  in 
his  journal  :  — 

"The  sun  and  the  sky  do  not  look  calmer  than  Alcott  and  his  family  at  Fruitlands.  They 
seem  to  have  arrived  at  the  fact  —  to  have  got  rid  of  the  show,  and  so  are  serene.  Their 
manners  and  behavior  in  the  house  and  in  the  field  are  those  of  superior  men,  —  of  men  of 
rest.  What  had  they  to  conceal?  What  had  they  to  exhibit?  And  it  seemed  so  high  an 
attainment  that  I  thought  —  as  often  before,  so  now  more,  because  they  had  a  fit  home  or  the 
picture  was  fitly  framed  —  that  those  men  ought  to  be  maintained  in  their  place  by  the  country 
for  its  culture.  Young  men  and  young  maidens,  old  men  and  women,  should  visit  them  and 
be  inspired.  I  think  there  is  as  much  merit  in  beautiful  manners  as  in  hard  work.  I  will  not 
prejudge  them  successful.  They  look  well  in  [uly;  we  will  see  them  in  December." 

But  alas  !  Emerson  did  not  see  the  idealists  in  December.  When 
the  cold  weather  came  on,  the  tragedy  for  the  Alcott  family  began. 

16 


May  Alcott  Nierlker. 


Some  of  those  who  had  basked  in  the  summer  sunshine  of  the  "  New 
ness  "  fled  to  "fresh  fields  and  pastures  new"  when  the  cold  and  dark 
days  came.  Mr.  Lane,  in  whose  companionship  Mr.  Alcott  had  en 
joyed  so  much,  left  to  join  the  Shakers,  where  he  soon  found  the  order 
of  things  reversed  for  him,  as  it  was  all  work  and  no  play  with  the 
brethren  and  sisters  there.  Mr.  Alcott's  strength  and  spirits  were 
exhausted.  He  had  assumed  more  than  his  share  of  responsibility, 


MISS  ALCCTTS   HOUSE  AT   NONQUITT. 

and  a  heavy  weight  of  suffering  and  debt  was  laid  upon  him.  The 
experiment  had  ended  in  disastrous  failure,  —  his  Utopia  had  vanished 
into  thin  air.  His  strange  theories  had  alienated  many  of  his  old 
friends  ;  he  was  called  a  visionary,  a  fool,  a  madman,  and  some  even 
called  him  unprincipled.  What  could  he  do  for  his  family?  Then  it 
was  that  his  wife,  whose  loyalty  was  supreme,  whose  good  sense  and 


practical  views  of  life  had  shown  her  from  the  beginning  what  would 
be  the  outcome  of  the  experiment,  then  it  was  that  her  strong  right 
arm  rescued  him.  He  was  cherished  with  renewed  love  and  tender 
ness  by  wife  and  children,  who  always  remembered  with  pain  this 
most  bitter  of  all  their  experiences,  and  could  never  refer  to  it  with 
out  weeping.  Louisa,  in  recalling  it,  would  say:  "Mother  fought 
down  despondency  and  drove  it  from  the  household,  and  even  wrested 
happiness  from  the  hard  hand  of  fate." 


THE  CONCORD  RIVER. 

After  Mr.  Alcott  had  rallied  from  the  depression  caused  by  the 
failure  at  Fruitlands,  he  went  back  to  Concord  with  his  family  and 
worked  manfully  with  his  hands  for  their  support;  he  also  resumed  his 
delightful  conversations,  which  in  those  days  of  transcendentalism  had 
become  somewhat  famous.  When  a  young  girl,  I  attended  them  with 
my  mother  at  the  house  of  the  Unitarian  clergyman  in  Lynn.  The 
talks  of  Mr.  Alcott  and  the  conversations  that  followed  were  /most 

18 


interesting — unlike  anything  that  had  been  heard  in  Lynn  or  its 
vicinity  in  those  days.  Afterward,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  and 
Thoreau  used  to  come  and  give  us  in  parlors  "  Lectures  on  Transcen 
dentalism,"  as  they  were  called. 

The  bus}-  years  rolled  on  for  Louisa,  who  exerted  herself  to  the 
utmost  to  be  the  family  helper  in  sewing,  teaching,  and  writing.  After 
her  stories  were  accepted  by 
the  Atlantic,  it  became  for 
her  smooth  sailing.  One  day, 
as  Mr.  Alcott  was  calling 
upon  Longfellow,  the  poet 
took  up  the  last  Atlantic  and 
said,  "  I  want  to  read  to  you 
Emerson's  fine  poem  on  Tho- 
reau's  Flute."  As  he  began 
to  read,  Mr.  Alcott  inter 
rupted  him,  exclaiming  with 
delight,  "My  daughter 
Louisa  wrote  that !  "  In  tell 
ing  me  of  this,  Louisa  said, 
"  Do  you  wonder  that  I  felt 
as  proud  as  a  peacock  when 
father  came  home  and  told 
me?"  This  occurred  before 
the  names  of  the  writers  were 
appended  to  their  contribu 
tions  to  the  magazine. 

Miss  Alcott  made  two  visits  Bust  of  Alcott  by  Ricketson.  in  the  Concord  Librarv- 

to  Europe,  travelling  quite  extensively  and  meeting  many  distinguished 
people.  She  was  always  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  writings  of  Dickens, 
and  she  had  the  great  pleasure  of  meeting  him  in  London  and  hearing 
him  read.  All  the  characters  in  his  books  were  like  household  friends 
to  her;  she  never  tired  of  talking  about  and  quoting  him.  Her 
impersonation  of  Mrs.  Jarley  was  inimitable ;  and  when  I  had  charge 
of  the  representation  of  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  "  at  the  Authors' 
Carnival  held  at  Music  Hall,  in  aid  of  the  Old  South  Preservation 

19 


Fund,   I   was    so    fortunate    as   to    persuade    her  to    take    the    part   of 
Mrs.  J 
be    fo 


[arley   in   the  waxwork 
gotten.      People    came 


show. 
from 


It  was  a  famous  show,  never  to 
all  parts  of  New  England  to  see 
Louisa  Alcott's 
Mrs.  Jarley,  for 
she  had  for  years 
been  famous  in 
the  part  when 
ever  a  deserving 
charity  was  to 
be  helped  in  that 
way.  Shouts  ot 
delight  and 
peals  of  laugh 
ter  greeted  her 
original  and 
witty  descrip 
tions  of  the 
"  fi  gge  rs  "  a  t 
each  perform 
ance,  and  it  was 
repeated  every 
evening  for  a 
week. 

One  day  dur 
ing  her  last  ill 
ness  I  received 
a  note  from  her, 
in  which  she 
wrote :  — 

"  A  poor  gentle 
woman  in  London 
has  written  to  me, 
because  she  thinks 

after  reading  my  books  that  I  loved  Dickens's  writings,  and  must  have  a  kind  heart  and 
generous  nature,  and,  therefore,  takes  the  liberty  to  write  and  ask  me  to  buy  a  letter  written 
to  her  l>y  Charles  Dickens,  who  was  a  friend  of  hers.  Such  is  her  desperate  need  of  money 


No.   10   Louisburg  Square,   Boston. 


that  she  must  part  with  it,  although  it  is  very  precious  to  her.  She  has  fourteen  children,  and 
asks  five  pounds  for  the  letter.  Now,  I  don't  want  the  letter,  and  am  not  well  enough  to 
see  or  even  write  to  any  one  about  buying  it  from  her;  will  not  you  try  and  do  it  for  me? 
'  If  at  first  you  don't  succeed,  try,  try  again.'  I'll  add  something  to  whatever  you  get  for  it. 
Remember  the  poor  thing  has  fourteen  children,  and  has  been  reduced  from  affluence 
to  poverty." 

The  letter  could  not  be  sold  for  the  price  named,  nor  indeed  to  any 
one  at  its  proper  value,  so  Miss  Alcott  returned  it  and  sent  the  price 
asked  for  it  by  the  next  steamer.  This  is  only  one  of  the  many 
generous  acts  of  sympathy  of  which  I  knew. 

The  Alcotts  were  always  anti-slavery  people.  Mrs.  Alcott's 
brother,  Samuel  J.  May,  and  her  cousin,  Samuel  E.  Sewall,  were  the 
stanchest  supporters  of  Garrison  in  the  early  struggles.  Mr.  Alcott 
was  the  firm  friend  of  that  intrepid  leader  in  the  war  against  slavery. 
Nearly  all  the  leading  Abolitionists  were  their  friends,  —  Lucretia  Mott, 
the  Grimke  sisters,  Theodore  Weld,  Lydia  Maria  Child,  Wendell 
Phillips,  Theodore  Parker,  Miss  Peabody,  and  others  of  that  remark 
able  galaxy  of  men  and  women  who  in  those  benighted  years  were 
ranked  as  fanatics  by  the  community  at  large.  When  the  mob  spirit 
reigned  in  Boston  and  Garrison  was  taken  to  a  jail  in  the  city  to  pro 
tect  him  from  its  fury  and  save  his  life,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alcott  were 
among  the  first  to  call  upon  him  to  express  their  sympathy. 

When  the  war  came,  the  Alcotts  were  stirred  to  a  white  heat  of 
patriotism.  Louisa  wrote  :  — 

"  I  am  scraping  lint  for  our  boys  in  blue.  My  May  blood  is  up.  I  must  go  to  the  front 
to  nurse  the  poor  helpless  soldiers  who  are  wounded  and  bleeding.  I  MUST  GO,  and  good  by 
if  I  never  return." 

She  did  go,  and  came  very  near  losing  her  life ;  for  while  in  the 
hospital  she  contracted  a  typhoid  fever,  was  very  ill,  and  never  re 
covered  from  its  effects  ;  it  can  be  truly  said  of  her  she  gave  her  life 
to  her  country.  One  of  her  father's  most  beautiful  sonnets  was  written 
in  reference  to  this  experience.  He  refers  to  her  in  this  as  "  Duty's 
faithful  child." 

During  her  experience  as  a  hospital  nurse  she  wrote  letters  home 
and  to  the  Commonwealth  newspaper.  From  these  letters  a  selection 
was  made  and  published  under  the  title  of  "  Hospital  Sketches."  To 
me  this  is  the  most  interesting  and  pathetic  of  all  Miss  Alcott's 


books.  With  shattered  health  she  returned  to  her  writing  and  her 
home  duties.  Slowly  but  surely  she  won  recognition  ;  but  it  was  not 
until  she  had  written  "  Little  Women,"  that  full  pecuniary  success 
came. 

Miss  Alcott  had  the  keenest  insight  into  character.  She  was  rarely 
mistaken  in  her  judgment  of  people.  She  was  intolerant  of  all  shams, 
and  despised  pretentious  persons.  Often  in  her  pleasant  rooms  at  the 
Bellevue  have  I  listened  to  her  estimates  of  people  whom  we  knew. 
She  was  sometimes  almost  ruthless  in  her  denunciation  of  society,  so 
called.  I  remember  what  she  said  as  we  sat  together  at  a  private  ball, 
where  many  of  the  butterflies  of  fashion  and  leaders  of  society  were 
assembled.  As  with  her  clear,  keen  eyes  she  viewed  the  pageant,  she 
exclaimed  :  "  Society  in  New  York  and  in  Boston,  as  we  have  seen  it 
to-night,  is  corrupt.  Such  immodest  dressing,  such  flirtations  of  some 
of  these  married  women  with  young  men  whose  mothers  they  might 
be,  so  far  as  age  is  concerned,  such  drinking  of  champagne —  I  loathe 
it  all  !  If  1  can  only  live  long  enough  I  mean  to  write  a  book  whose 
characters  will  be  drawn  from  life.  Mrs.  -  [naming  a  person  pres 
ent]  shall  be  prominent  as  the  society  leader,  and  the  fidelity  of  the 
picture  shall  leave  no  one  in  doubt  as  to  the  original." 

She  always  bitterly  denounced  all  unwomanliness.  Her  standard 
of  morality  was  a  high  one,  and  the  same  for  men  as  for  women.  She 
was  an  earnest  advocate  of  woman  suffrage  and  college  education  for 
girls,  because  she  devoutly  believed  that  woman  should  do  whatever 
she  could  do  well,  in  church  or  school  or  state.  When  1  was  elected 
a  member  of  the  school  committee  of  Melrose  in  1874,  she  wrote:  — 

"I  rejoice  greatly  thereat,  and  hope  that  the  first  thing  that  you  and  Mrs.  Sewall  propose 
in  your  first  meeting  will  be  to  reduce  the  salary  of  the  head  master  of  the  High  School,  and 
increase  the  salary  of  the  first  woman  assistant,  whose  work  is  quite  as  good  as  his,  and  even 
harder;  to  make  the  pay  equal.  I  believe  in  the  same  pay  for  the  same  good  work.  Don't 
you?  In  future  let  woman  do  whatever  she  can  do;  let  men  place  no  more  impediments  in 
the  way;  above  all  things  let's  have  fair  play,  —  let  simple  justice  be  done,  say  I.  Let  us  hear 
no  more  of  'woman's  sphere'  either  from  our  wise  (?)  legislators  beneath  the  State  House 
dome,  or  from  our  clergymen  in  their  pulpits.  I  am  tired,  year  after  year,  of  hearing  such 
twaddle  about  sturdy  oaks  and  clinging  vines  and  man's  chivalric  protection  of  woman.  Let 
woman  find  out  her  own  limitations,  and  if,  as  is  so  confidently  asserted,  nature  has  defined  her 
sphere,  she  will  be  guided  accordingly;  but  in  heaven's  name  give  her  a  chance!  Let  the 
professions  be  open  to  her;  let  fifty  years  of  college  education  be  hers,  and  then  we  shall  see 


what  \ve  shall  see.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  shall  we  he  able  to  say  what  woman  can  and 
what  she  cannot  do,  and  coming  generations  will  know  and  be  able  to  define  more  clearly 
what  is  a  '  woman's  sphere  '  than  these  benighted  men  who  now  try  to  do  it." 

During  Miss  Alcott's  last  illness  she  wrote:  — 

"When  I  get  upon  my  feet  I  am  going  (D.  V.)  to  devote  myself  to  settling  poor  souls 
who  need  a  helping  hand  in  hard  times." 

Many  pictures  and  some  busts  have  been  made  of  Miss  Alcott,  but 
very  few  of  them  are  satisfactory.  The  portrait  painted  in  Rome  by 
Healy  is,  T  think, 
a  very  good  one. 
The  bas-relief  by 
Walton  Ricketson, 
her  dear  sculptor 
friend,  is  most  in 
teresting,  and  has 
many  admirers. 
Ricketson  has  also 
made  a  bust  of 
Mr.  Alcott  for  the 
Concord  Library, 
which  is  exceed 
ingly  good,  much 
liked  by  the  fam 
ily,  and  so  far  as  I 
know,  by  all  who 
have  seen  it.  Of 
the  photographs  of 
Miss  Alcott  only  t\vo  or  three  are  in  the  least  satisfactory,  notably  the 
full-length  one  made  by  Warren  many  years  ago,  and  also  one  by  Allen 
and  Rowell.  In  speaking  of  her  pictures  she  once  said,  "  When  I 
don't  look  like  the  tragic  muse,  I  look  like  a  smoky  relic  of  the  Boston 
fire."  Mr.  Ricketson  is  now  at  work  upon  a  bust  of  her,  a  photograph 
of  which,  from  the  clay,  accompanies  this  article.  In  a  letter  to  me  in 
reply  to  one  written  after  I  had  seen  the  bust  in  his  studio  at  Concord, 
Mr.  Ricketson  writes:  — 

"  I  feel  deeply  the  important  task   1   have  to  do  in  making  this  portrait,  since  it  is  to  give 
form  and  expression  to  the  broad  love  of  humanity,  the  fixed  purpose  to  fulfil  her  mission,  the 


House  on   Dunreath   Place,   Boston,   where  Miss  Alcott  died. 


23 


womanly  dignity,  physical  beauty,  and  queenly  presence  which  were  so  perfectly  combined  in 
our  late  friend,  and  all  so  dominated  by  a  fine  intellectuality.  To  do  this  and  satisfy  a  public 
that  has  formed  somewhat  an  idea  of  her  personal  appearance  is  indeed  a  task  worthy  of  the 
best  effort.  I  certainly  have  some  advantages  to  start  with.  The  medallion  from  life  modelled 
at  Nonquitt  in  1886,  and  at  that  time  considered  the  best  likeness  of  her,  is  invaluable,  as  the 
measurements  are  all  accurate.  I  also  have  access  to  all  the  photographs,  etc.,  of  the  family, 
and  the  criticisms  of  her  sister,  nephews,  and  friends,  and  my  long  and  intimate  acquaintance. 
I  feel  this  to  be  the  most  important  work  I  have  as  yet  attempted.  I  intend  to  give  unlimited 
time  to  it,  and  shall  not  consider  it  completed  until  the  family  and  friends  are  fully  satisfied. 
The  success  of  the  bust  of  the  father  leads  me  to  hope  for  the  same  result  in  the  one  of  his 
beloved  daughter." 

Miss  Alcott  always  took  a  warm  interest  in  Mr.  Frank  Elwell, 
the  sculptor,  and  assisted  him  towards  his  education  in  art. 

Miss  Alcott  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and  her  friends  recall 
with  delight  her  sallies  of  wit  and  caustic  descriptions  of  the  School 
of  Philosophy,  the  "  unfathomable  wisdom,"  the  "  metaphysical  pyro 
technics,"  the  strange  vagaries  of  some  of  the  devotees.  She  would 
sometimes  enclose  such  nonsense  rhymes  as  these  to  her  intimate 
friends  :  — 

"  Philosophers  sit  in  their  sylvan  hall 

And  talk  of  the  duties  of  man, 
Of  Chaos  and  Cosmos,  Ilegel  and  Kant, 

With  the  Oversoul  well  in  the  van ; 
All  on  their  hobbies  they  amble  away, 

And  a  terrible  dust  they  make; 
Disciples  devout  both  gaze  and  adore, 

As  daily  they  listen,  and  bake  !  '' 

The  "  sylvan  hall  "  was,  as  I  know  from  bitter  experience  while 
attending  the  sessions  of  the  School  of  Philosophy,  the  hottest  place 
in  historic  old  Concord. 

Sometimes  Miss  Alcott  would  bring  her  nonsense  rhymes  or 
"jingles,"  as  she  called  them,  to  the  club,  and  read  at  our  pleasant 
club-teas,  amid  shouts  of  merriment  followed  by  heartiest  applause, 
such  clever  bits  as  the  following:  — 

A  WAIL  UTTERED  IN  THE  WOMAN'S  CLUB. 

God  bless  you,  merry  ladies,  Get  out  your  pocket-handkerchiefs. 
May  nothing  you  dismay,  Give  o'er  your  jokes  and  songs, 

As  you  sit  here  at  ease  and  hark  Forget  awhile  your  Woman's  Rights, 
Unto  my  dismal  lay.  And  pity  author's  wrongs. 

24 


There  is  a  town  of  high  repute, 

Where  saints  and  sages  dwell, 
Who  in  these  latter  days  are  forced 

To  bid  sweet  peace  farewell; 
For  all  their  men  are  demigods, — 

So  rumor  doth  declare, — 
And  all  the  women  are  L)e  Stae'ls, 

And  genius  tills  the  air. 

So  eager  pilgrims  penetrate 

To  their  most  private  nooks, 
Storm  their  back  doors  in  search  of  news 

And  interview  their  cooks, 
Worship  at  every  victim's  shrine, 

See  halos  round  their  hats, 
Kmbalm  the  chickweed  from  their  yards, 

And  photograph  their  cats. 

There's  Emerson,  the  poet  wise, 

That  much-enduring  man, 
Sees  Jenkinses  from  every  clime, 

liut  dodges  when  he  can. 
Chaos  and  Cosmos  down  below 

Their  waves  of  trouble  roll, 
While  safely  in  his  attic  locked, 

1  le  woos  the  ( Iversoul. 

And  Hawthorne,  shy  as  any  maid, 

From  these  invaders  tied 
Out  of  the  window  like  a  wraith, 

(  >r  to  his  tower  sped  — 
Till  vanishing  from  this  rude  world, 

He  left  behind  no  clue, 
Except  along  the  hillside  path 

The  violet's  tender  blue. 

Channing  scarce  dares  at  eventide 

To  leave  his  lonely  lair; 
Reporters  lurk  on  every  side 

And  hunt  him  like  a  bear. 
Quaint  Thoreau  sought  the  wilderness, 

But  callers  by  the  score 
Scared  the  poor  hermit  from  his  cell, 

The  woodchuck  from  his  door. 


There's  Alcott,  the  philosopher, 

Who  labored  long  and  well 
Plato's  Republic  to  restore, 

Now  keeps  a  free  hotel; 
Whole  boarding-schools  of  gushing  girls 

That  hapless  mansion  throng, 
And  Young  Men's  Christian  U-ni-ons, 

Full  live-and-seventy  strong. 

Alas !   what  can  the  poor  souls  do? 

Their  homes  are  homes  no  more; 
No  washing-day  is  sacred  now; 

Spring  cleaning's  never  o'er. 
Their  doorsteps  are  the  stranger's  camp, 

Their  trees  bear  many  a  name, 
Artists  their  very  nightcaps  sketch; 

And  this  —  and  this  is  fame  ! 

Deluded  world  !  your  Mecca  is 

A  sand-bank  glorified; 
The  river  that  you  see  and  sing 

Has  "  skeeters,"  but  no  tide. 
The  gods  raise  "  garden-sarse  "  and  milk 

And  in  these  classic  shades 
Dwell  nineteen  chronic  invalids 

And  forty-two  old  maids. 

Some  April  shall  the  world  behold 

Embattled  authors  stand, 
With  steel  pens  of  the  sharpest  tip 

In  every  inky  hand. 
Their  bridge  shall  be  a  bridge  of  sighs, 

Their  motto,  "  Privacy  " ; 
Their  bullets  like  that  Luther  flung 

When  bidding  Satan  flee. 

Their  monuments  of  ruined  books, 

Of  precious  wasted  days, 
Of  tempers  tried,  distracted  brains, 

That  might  have  won  fresh  bays. 
And  round  this  sad  memorial, 

Oh,  chant  for  requiem  : 
Here  lie  our  murdered  geniuses; 

Concord  has  conquered  them. 


From  the  time  that  the  success  of  "  Little  Women  "  established  her 
reputation  as  a  writer,  until  the  last  day  of  her  life,  her  absolute  de 
votion  to  her  familv  continued.  Her  mother's  declining  years  were 


soothed  with  every  care  and  comfort  that  filial  love  could  bestow;  she 
died  in  Louisa's  arms,  and  for  her  she  performed  all  the  last  offices  of 
affection,  —  no  stranger  hands  touched  the  beloved  form.  The 
most  beautiful  of  her  poems  was  written  at  this  time,  in  memory  of 
her  mother,  and  was  called,  "  Transfiguration."  A  short  time  after 
her  mother's  death,  her  sister  May,  who  had  married  Mr.  Ernest 
Nicriker,  a  Swiss  gentleman,  living  in  Paris,  died  after  the  birth  of  her 
child.  Of  this  Louisa  wrote  me  in  reply  to  a  letter  of  sympathy:  — 

"I  mourn  and  mourn  by  day  and  night  for  May.  Of  all  the  griefs  in  my  life,  and  I 
have  had  many,  this  is  the  bitterest.  I  try  so  hard  to  be  brave,  but  the  tears  will  come,  and 
I  go  off  and  cry  and  cry;  the  dear  little  baby  may  comfort  Ernest,  but  what  can  comfort  us? 
May  called  her  two  years  of  marriage  perfect  happiness,  and  said  :  '  If  I  die  when  baby  is 
born,  don't  mourn,  for  1  have  had  in  these  two  years  more  happiness  than  comes  to  many  in  a 
lifetime.'  The  baby  is  named  for  me,  and  is  to  be  given  to  me  as  my  very  own.  What  a  sad 
but  precious  legacy  !  " 

The  little  golden-haired  Lulu  was  bronght  to  her  by  its  aunt,  Miss 
Sophie  Nieriker,  and  she  was  indeed  a  great  comfort  to  Miss  Alcott 
for  the  remainder  of  her  life. 

In  1886,  Miss  Alcott  took  a  furnished  house  on  Louisburg  Square 
in  Boston,  and  although  her  health  was  still  very  delicate  she  antici 
pated  much  quiet  happiness  in  the  family  life.  In  the  autumn  and 
winter  she  suffered  much  from  indigestion,  sleeplessness,  and  general 
debility.  Early  in  December  she  told  me  how  very  much  she  was 
suffering,  and  added,  "  I  mean  if  possible  to  keep  up  until  after 
Christmas,  and  then  I  am  sure  I  shall  break  down."  When  I  went  to 
carry  her  a  Christmas  gift,  she  showed  me  the  Christmas  tree,  and 
seemed  so  bright  and  happy  that  I  was  not  prepared  to  hear  soon  after 
that  she  had  gone  out  to  the  restful  quiet  of  a  home  in  Dunreath 
Place,  at  the  Highlands,  where  she  could  be  tenderly  cared  for  under 
the  direction  of  her  friend,  Dr.  Rhoda  Lawrence,  to  whom  she  dedi- 
datcd  one  of  her  books.  She  was  too  weak  to  bear  even  the  pleasur 
able  excitement  of  her  own  home,  and  called  Dr.  Lawrence's  house, 
"  Saint's  Rest."  The  following  summer  she  went  with  Dr.  Lawrence  to 
Princeton,  but  on  her  return  in  the  autumn  her  illness  took  an  alarming 
character,  and  she  was  unable  to  see  her  friends,  and  only  occasionally 
the  members  of  her  family.  On  her  last  birthday,  November  29, 
she  received  many  gifts,  and  as  I  had  remembered  her,  the  follow- 

26 


Y> 


^K 


o 


A   PORTION  OF  MISS  ALCOTT'S   LAST  LETTER. 


IP;  characteristic   letter  came    to    me,   the    last    but  one  that  she  sent 


"Thanks  for  the  flowers  and  for  the  kind  thought  that  sent  them  to  the  poor  old  exile.  1 
had  seven  boxes  of  flowers,  two  baskets,  and  three  plants,  forty  gifts  in  all,  and  at  night  I  lay  in  a 
room  that  looked  like  a  small  fair,  with  its  live  tables  covered  with  pretty  things,  borders  of 
posies,  and  your  noble  roses  towering  iu  state  over  all  the  rest.  That  red  one  was  so  delicious 
that  I  revelled  in  it  like  a  big  bee,  and  felt  it  might  almost  do  for  a  body  —  I  am  so  thin  now. 
Kverybody  was  very  kind,  and  my  solitary  day  was  made  happy  by  so  much  luve.  Illness  and 
exile  have  their  bright  side,  I  find,  and  I  hope  to  come  out  in  the  spring  a  gay  old  butterfly. 
My  rest-and-milk-cure  is  doing  well,  and  I  am  an  obedient  oyster  since  I  have  learned  that 
patience  and  time  are  my  best  helps.'' 


£«=     -:  ••-atfaaesHBlh  m<f-^ 


THE  ALCOTT  LOT  IN  SLEEPY  HOLLOW  CEMETERY,   CONCORD. 

In  February,  1888,  Mr.  Alcott  was  taken  with  what  provjed  to  be 
his  last  illness.  Louisa  knew  that  the  end  was  near,  and  as  often  as 
she  was  able  came  into  town  to  see  him.  On  Thursday  morning, 
March  2,  I  chanced  to  be  at  the  house,  where  I  had  gone  to  inquire 
for  Mr.  Alcott  and  Louisa.  While  talking  with  Mrs.  Pratt,  her  sister, 
the  door  opened,  and  Louisa,  who  had  come  in  from  the  Highlands  to 
see  her  father,  entered.  I  had  not  seen  her  for  months,  and  the  sight 
of  her  thin,  wan  face  and  sad  look  shocked  me,  and  I  felt  for  the  first 

27 


time  that  she  was  hopelessly  ill.  After  a  few  affectionate  words  of 
greeting  she  passed  through  the  open  doors  of  the  next  room.  The 
scene  that  followed  was  most  pathetic.  There  lay  the  dear  old  father, 
stricken  with  death,  his  face  illumined  with  the  radiance  that  comes 
but  once, — with  uplifted  ga/e  he  heeded  her  not.  Kneeling  by  his 
bedside,  she  took  his  hand,  kissed  it  and  placed  in  it  the  pansies  she 
had  brought,  saying,  "It  is  Weedy"  (her  pet  name).  Then  after  a 
moment's  silence  she  asked,  "  What  arc  you  thinking  of,  dear?"  He 
replied,  looking  upward,  "  L'p  there;  you  come  too!"  Then  with  a 
kiss  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  go,"  bowing  her  head  as  if  in  prayer. 
After  a  little  came  the  "  Good  by,"  the  last  kiss,  and  like  a  shadow 
she  glided  from  the  room.  The  following  clay  I  wrote  her  at  the 
"  Saint's  Rest,"  enclosing  a  photograph  of  her  sister  May,  that  I 
found  among  some  old  letters  of  her  own.  Referring  to  my  meeting 
with  her  the  day  before,  I  said  :  — 

"I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  bear  the  impending  event  with  the  same  brave  philosophy 
that  was  yours  when  your  dear  mother  died." 

She  received  my  note  on  Saturday  morning,  together  with  one 
from  her  sister.  Karly  in  the  morning  she  replied  to  her  sister's  note, 
telling  of  a  dull  pain  and  a  weight  like  iron  on  her  head.  Later,  she 
wrote  me  the  last  words  she  ever  penned  ;  and  in  the  evening  came 
the  fatal  stroke  of  apoplexy,  followed  by  unconsciousness.  Her 
letter  to  me  was  a  follows:  — 

"DEAR  MRS.  POR'IKR,  —  Thanks  for  the  picture.  I  am  very  glad  to  have  it.  No 
philosophy  is  needed  for  the  impending  event.  I  shall  be  very  glad  \\hen  the  dear  old  man 
falls  asleep  after  his  long  and  innocent  life.  Sorrow  has  no  place  at  such  times,  and  death  is 
never  terrible  when  it  comes  as  now  in  the  likeness  of  a  friend. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  L.   M.   A. 

"  P.  S.  I  have  another  year  to  stay  in  my  'Saint's  Rest,'  and  then  I  am  promised  twenty 
years  of  health.  I  don't  want  so  many,  and  1  have  no  idea  I  shall  see  them.  P>ut  as  I  don't 
live  for  myself,  I  hold  on  for  others,  and  shall  find  time  to  die  some  day,  I  hope." 

Mr.  Alcott  died  on  Sunday  morning,  March  4,  and  on  Tuesday 
morning,  March  6,  death,  "  in  the  likeness  of  a  friend,"  came  to  Louisa. 
Mr.  Alcott's  funeral  took  place  on  Tuesday  morning,  and  many  of 
the  friends  there  assembled  were  met  with  the  tidings  of  Louisa's 
death.  Miss  Alcott  had  made  every  arrangement  for  her  funeral.  It 

28 


was  her  desire  that  only  those  near  and  dear  to  her  should  be  present, 
that  the  service  should  be  simple,  and  that  only  friends  should  take 
part.  The  services  were  indeed  simple,  but  most  impressive.  Dr. 
Bartol,  the  lifelong  friend  of  the  family,  paid  a  loving  and  simple 
tribute  to  her  character,  as  did  Airs.  Livermore.  Mrs.  Cheney  read 
the  sonnet  written  by  Mr.  Alcott,  which  refers  to  her  as  "  Duty's 
faithful  child."  Mrs.  Harriet  Winslow  Sewall,  a  very  dear  cousin, 
read  with  her  sweet  voice  and  in  a  tender  manner  that  most  beautiful 
of  Louisa's  poems,  "Transfiguration,"  written  in  memory  of  her 
mother.  I  had  carried  my  simple  tribute  of  verse,  but  could  not  con 
trol  voice  or  emotion  sufficiently  to  read  it,  and  laid  it  with  a  bunch  of 
white  Cherokee  roses  on  the  casket. 


29 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


RECOLLECTIONS 
OF 

JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

F  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  was  the  most  beloved  of  our 
poets,  the  tributes  paid  him  over  the  length  and  breadth 
of  our  land  show.  Born  on  a  rugged  New  England  farm, 
he  was  reared  in  Quaker  simplicity  and  integrity  of  life, 
from  which  he  never  deviated.  In  speech  and  dress  he 
adhered  to  the  Ouaker  form.  There  have  been  greater 

'^*  O 

and  more  scholarly  American  poets,  of  wider  fame,  but  as  a 
poet  of  nature,  of  New  England  life  and  legends,  was  he  not  the 
sweetest  singer  of  all?  The  very  atmosphere  of  New  England  per 
meates  his  verse.  In  loyalty  to  right  and  freedom,  no  one  has 
equalled  him.  He  has  often  been  called  the  Burns  of  New  Eng 
land,  and  last  summer  Lord  Tennyson,  in  speaking  of  Whittier's 
poem,  "  My  Playmate,"  said,  "  It  is  a  perfect  poem,"  adding,  "  in 
some  of  his  descriptions  of  scenery  and  wild  flowers,  he  would  rank 
with  Wordsworth"  ;  and  he  repeated,  in  his  sonorous  voice,  that 
exquisite  verse  from  "  The  Daffodils,"  ending  with  — 

"  And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils." 

What  vivid  word-pictures  Whittier  gives  us,  not  only  of  New  Eng 
land  scenery,  but  of  the  prairies  of  the  West,  the  luxuriance  of  the 
South,  the  tropics,  of  Rome,  and  of  Venice 

"  When  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  <,rates." 

His  sun  has  set,  but  what  a  glow  of  beauty  lingers  around  the 
hills  and  lakes  and  streams  of  Massachusetts  and  New  Hampshire, 
that  he  loved  so  well  and  dwelt  amid  so  long !  His  songs  among 


31 


the  hills  flow  with  the  melody  of  brooks,  the  sweep  of  torrents,  the 
roar  of  cascades,  are  impressive  with  the  grandeur  of  mountains,  the 
splendor  of  autumnal  trees,  the  glory  of  sunsets,  and  vibrate  with 
poetic  strength  and  beauty.  His  thrilling  lyrics  and  stirring  anti- 
slavery  poems  won 
for  him  early  in  life 
the  name  of  the 
"  Poet  of  Freedom." 
Edwin  P.  \Yhipple, 
our  most  famous  lit 
erary  critic  and  essay 
ist,  was  one  of  the 
fi  r  s  t  to  r  c  c  o  gn  i  /  e 
YVhitticr  as  a  poet  of 
great  power.  M  r. 
\Yhittier  once  said  to 
him,  "  I  have  always 
been  grateful  to  thee, 
Edwin,  for  from  thee 
I  first  won  recog 
nition  ;  and  although 
I  was  partly  con 
scious  of  what  in  me 
lay,  thy  assurance 
gave  me  courage  to 
go  on  with  my  work." 
To  Edwin  and  Char 
lotte  YV  h  i  p  p  1  e  h  e 
dedicated  a  volume 
of  his  poems.  I  low 
much  his  songs,  "  In 
War  Time,"  dedicated  to  Samuel  E.  and  Harriet  YYinslow  Sewall,  did 
to  strengthen  the  patriotism  of  the  North  during  the  darkest  hours  of 
the  national  struggle,  all  of  us  who  lived  and  suffered  through  the 
horrors  of  those  years  love  to  recall.  How  precious  were  his  tender 
memorial  verses  to  our  young  heroes  like  Shaw,  \\inthrop,  Lowell, 


Whittier's   Birthplace,   Haverhill,   Mass. 


Putnam,  and  others  who  gave  their  lives  to  their  country  !  His  tribute 
to  the  brave  Gen.  Bartlett  ranks  among  the  best  of  these.  Was  ever 
poem  more  scathing  in  its  denunciation  of  a  wrongdoer  than  "  Ichabod," 
\vritten  in  1850,  just  after  Daniel  Webster  had  made  his  famous  "  seventh 
of  March  speech,"  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  in  favor  of  the 
infamous  Fugitive  Slave  Law?  In  what  high  regard  Ralph  Waldo 
Kmerson  held  this  poem,  an  incident  that  took  place  at  the  celebration 
of  the  seventieth  birthday  of  Whittier  will  show.  The  publishers  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  gave  a  dinner  in  honor  of  the  occasion ;  among 
those  present  were  man}'  of  Whittier's  friends  among  the  poets, 
Longfellow,  Holmes,  Emerson,  and  others.  Many  brought  their 
congratulations  in  verse.  When  Emerson  was  called  upon  by 
the  chairman  he  said,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect:  "I  have  brought 
no  poem  of  my  own  for  my  friend's  birthday,  but  I  will  read  one 
of  his  that  reflects  more  honor  upon  him  than  anything  I  could 
have  written  in  his  praise  "  ;  and  he  read,  as  only  he  could  read,  the 
poem  of  "  Ichabod."  Those  who  were  present  will  long  remember 
the  scene,  which  should  not  be  lost  to  history.  This  poem  expresses 
the  intense  severity  with  which  Whittier  and  the  Abolitionists  regarded 
the  action  of  Daniel  Webster.  His  friends  at  the  North,  and  espe 
cially  the  "Webster  Whigs"  (so  called)  of  Boston,  indorsed  his 
speech.  After  the  wicked  bill  became  a  law,  the}'  were  willing,  alas  ! 
and  read}'  to  enforce  it,  and  return  to  their  cruel  masters  the  poor, 
trembling  colored  men  and  women  who,  through  perils  and  suffering 
inexpressible  of  mind  and  bod}',  had  escaped  from  bondage.  They 
were  willing,  also,  to  make  of  Massachusetts  a  hunting  ground  for 
slaves;  to  make  of  her  what  Whittier  had,  in  his  spirited  "Massa 
chusetts  to  Virginia,"  declared  sJic  never  slionld  become  ! 

"  For  us  and  for  our  children  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  heaven; 
No  slave  hunt  in  our  l>orders,  no  pirate  on  our  strand ! 
Xo  fetters  in  the  Bay  State,  no  slave  upon  ottr  /ant/.'" 

These    lines    should    stand    side    by    side    with    Lowell's     immortal 

ones  :  - 

"  Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  wrong  forever  on  the  throne, 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and  behind  the  dim  unknown 
Standeth  ( Joel  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his  own." 

33 


Who  that  saw  that  day  of  shame  in  Boston  can  ever  forget  it,  when 
the  Court  House  was  encircled  with  chains  by  order  of  the  United 
States  marshal,  and  the  judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts 
were  obliged  to  stoop  under  this  symbol  of  the  supremacy  of  the  slave 
holders  in  order  to  reach  their  tribunals  of  justice?  The  day  of  the 
deepest  humiliation  for  Boston  was  that  when  Thomas  Sims  was 
marched  down  State  Street,  a  file  of  soldiers  on  either  side,  to  the 
vessel  that  was  to  convey  him  back  to  stripes  and  servitude.  What 
lessons  of  man's  inhumanity  to  man  did  those  benighted  days  afford  ! 
Not  once  only,  but  twice,  in  utter  disregard  of  the  higher  law  that 
should  hold  sway  over  men  and  nations,  were  fugitive  slaves  dragged 
back  from  Boston  to  the  homes  of  their  oppressors. 

The  excitement  of  the  Abolitionists  was  very  great  at  the  time  ; 
man}-  concealed  the  fugitives  in  their  houses  or  barns  at  the  greatest 
risk.  A  relative  of  mine  concealed  a  slave  named  Latimer  in  the  attic 
of  his  house  for  weeks  ;  and  Mrs.  Alcott,  so  her  daughter  Louisa  used 
to  relate,  had  two  fugitives  hidden  in  her  house,  a  woman  and  man. 
The  woman  was  in  the  attic,  and  the  man,  whenever  the  slave-catchers 
were  supposed  to  be  in  pursuit,  was  put  into  a  large,  old-fashioned 
brick  oven  and  shut  in  until  the  danger  was  past.  Those  indeed  were 
troublous  times !  Whittier  wrote  his  most  intense  and  remarkable 
verses  of  appeal  and  warning  during  those  years.  His  was  a  righteous 
indignation  at  his  country's  wrongdoing,  and  shame  at  the  recreant 
Northern  statesmen,  who  in  servile  fear  bent  their  necks  to  wear  the 
yoke  of  the  slave  power.  When  other  poets,  with  the  shining  exception 
of  Lowell,  were  silent  or  nearly  so,  he  had  won  a  place  in  the  hearts  of 
the  friends  of  humanity,  whose  love  for  him  grew  stronger  and  deeper 
as  the  years  rolled  on. 

Whittier' s  friendship  for  Garrison  began  from  the  time  that  his  first 
poem  was  published  in  a  newspaper  that  Garrison  edited  in  Newbury- 
port.  On  January  i ,  1831,  the  first  number  of  the  Liberator  was  published 
in  Boston  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  whose  name  the  world  will  never 
forget  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  philanthropists.  This  leader  of  the  anti- 
slaver}-  movement,  from  the  strength  of  his  moral  conviction  that  slavery 
was  a  gigantic  sin,  determined  earl}-  in  life  to  do  all  that  he  could  to 
destroy  it — to  demand  its  abolition.  In  his  salutatory  address  to  the 

34 


public  in  the  Liberator  he  wrote,  in  words  that  have  often  been  quoted 
and  should  never  be  forgotten  :  "I  am  aware  that  many  object  to  the 
severity  of  my  language,  but  is  there  not  cause  for  severity?  I  WILL 
BE  as  harsh  as  truth,  and  as  uncompromising  as  justice !  On  this 
subject  I  do  not  wish  to  think,  or  speak,  or  write  with  moderation. 
No  !  no  !  urge  me  not  to  use  moderation  in  a  cause  like  the  present. 
I  am  in  earnest;  I  will  not  equivocate;  I  will  not  retreat  a  single  inch, 
-AND  I  WILL  BE  HEARD!"  In  reply  to  a  letter  from  the  South 
asking  questions  about  Garrison's  incendiary  utterances  in  the  Liberator, 
Harrison  Gray  Otis,  the  mayor  of  Boston,  wrote  of  the  office  of  the 
Liberator,  "  It  is  an  obscure  hole"  ;  but  James  Russell  Lowell,  of  blessed 
memory,  wrote  thus  of  it :  - 

"  In  a  small  chamber,  friendless  and  unseen, 

Toiled  o'er  his  types  one  poor,  unlearned  young  man ; 
The  place  was  dull,  unfurnitured,  and  mean, 
But  there  the  freedom  of  a  race  began." 

Whittier  at  the  same  time  wrote  his  well-known  poem,  "To  W.  L. 
G.,"  and  was  from  the  first  a  sympathizer  and  helper ;  and  so  was  Samuel 
E.  Sewall,  a  young  lawyer  of  Boston,  in  whose  office  the  anti-slavery 
society  was  formed.  Ellis  Gray  Loring,  Gamaliel  Bradford,  and  others 
were  present  at  the  second  meeting  in  December,  and  joined.  A  little 
later  Wendell  Phillips  and  Edmund  Ouincy  became  members,  and 
were  ever  after  zealous  in  the  good  work.  At  the  time  of  the  Garrison 
mob  in  Boston,  Whittier,  who  was  at  that  time  a  representative  in  the 
General  Court,  came  down  from  the  State  House  and  witnessed  the 
disgraceful  scene  of  the  mob,  which  was  described  in  one  of  the  news 
papers  and  referred  to  as  "composed  of  gentlemen  in  broadcloth,  of 
property  and  standing."  After  Garrison  had  been  carried  to  jail  to 
protect  his  life  from  the  fury  of  the  mob,  Whittier,  Mr.  Sewall,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bronson  Alcott,  and  other  sympathizing  friends  visited  him,  and 
talked  with  him  through  the  bars  of  his  cell.  On  the  way  home,  Mrs. 
Alcott  took  from  the  house  of  a  friend  the  portrait  of  George  Thompson 
(divested  of  its  frame),  concealed  it  beneath  her  cloak,  and  kept  it  hidden 
in  her  house  until  it  was  safe  to  show  it.  In  1837,  Elijah  P.  Lovejoy 
was  murdered  at  Alton,  111.,  while  defending  his  printing  press  from  a 
mob  assembled  to  destroy  it,  his  offence  being  that  of  printing  editorials 

35 


against  slavery.  In  the  week  following  a  meeting  was  called  in  Faneuil 
Mall  to  protest  against  the  violation  of  the  principle  of  liberty  in  the 
murder  of  Lovcjoy.  Dr.  William  Kllery  Charming  made  a  most  impres 
sive  speech  in  favor  of  free  speech  and  of  liberty  for  the  press,  and 
George  S.  Hillard  spoke  next.  He  was  to  have  been  followed  by 
Wendell  Phillips,  but  the  floor  was  taken  by  James  T.  Austin,  the 
attorney  general  of  Massachusetts,  who  in  speaking  of  the  murdered 
Lovcjoy  said  that  he  "  died  as  the  fool  dieth,"  and  that  the  men  who 
killed  him  were  as  great  patriots  as  those  who  threw  the  tea  into 
Boston  Harbor.  He  was  applauded  by  a  part  of  the  audience,  anil 
when  Wendell  Phillips  ascended  to  the  platform  he  was  hissed  and 
hooted  by  the  crowd.  In  spite  of  the  outcries  and  opposition  of  the 
audience,  he  held  his  place  as  firm  as  the  granite  rock,  and  sternly 
rebuked  Austin  for  his  speech.  "  When  1  heard  the  gentleman,"  said 
he,  "  lay  down  the  principles  that  placed  the  murderers  at  Alton  side 
by  side  with  Otis  and  Hancock,  with  Ouincy  and  Adams,  I  thought 
those  pictured  lips,"  pointing  to  their  portraits,  "  would  have  broken 
into  voice  to  rebuke  the  recreant  American,  the  slanderer  of  the  dead." 

Whittier  always  referred  to.  that  "  maiden  speech  "  of  Phillips  as 
most  impressive  in  its  eloquence,  and  said  the  scene  should  be  painted 
to  go  down  to  posterity  as  of  historic  importance.  From  that  hour 
Wendell  Phillips  ranked  as  the  greatest  of  our  orators. 

My  personal  recollections  of  Whittier  date  back  to  my  early 
girlhood.  I  saw  him  first  at  an  anti-slavery  fair  in  Boston,  where 
my  aunt  was,  with  others,  in  charge  of  a  table.  I  had  as  a  child 
a  great  desire  to  see  Whittier  and  all  the  rest  of  those  intrepid 
leaders  in  the  good  cause.  The  people  of  whom  I  had  read  and 
heard  so  much  were  all  there,  —  Garrison  and  his  noble  wife,  Whittier, 
the  Sewalls,  Edmund  Ouincy,  Wendell  Phillips,  the  Mays,  the  Bow- 
ditches,  the  Westons,  James  Russell  Lowell  and  his  beautiful  fiancee, 
Maria  White,  Lydia  Maria  Child,  Mrs.  Chapman,  and  main"  more  of 
those  who  were  working  in  dead  earnest  to  abolish  the  "  sum  of  all 
villanies,"  —  slaver}'.  I  recognized  Whittier  as  soon  as  he  entered 
the  hall  from  his  Quaker  dress  and  the  shyness  of  his  manner. 
He  was  tall,  very  erect,  with  glowing  dark  eyes,  dark  brown  hair,  a 
fine  complexion.  As  he  approached  our  table,  he  espied  some 

36 


volumes  of  the  "  Liberty  Bell,"  and  took  one  up  to  examine  its  con 
tents,  asked  the  price,  and  said  he  would  take  two  copies ;  when  I 
gave  him  the  books  I  said,  "  I  thank  thee,"  whereupon  he  asked, 
"Art  thou  a  Quaker?"  I  told  him  that  I  often  used  the  "plain 
language "  when  talking  with  my  Quaker  relatives.  In  answer  to 
his  questioning,  I  told  him  my  grandmother  was  a  birthright  mem 
ber  and  at  one  time  clerk  of  the  women's  meeting;  thereupon  we 
had  a  chat  about  my  Quaker  relatives  in  Salem,  and  I  found  that 
he  knew  them  well. 


r 


•v>ft;vw 

"THE   SWIFT    POWOW." 


All  through  the  years  that  followed,  I  saw  him  occasionally  up 
to  the  time  of  his  last  birthday,  the  1 7th  of  December.  On  that 
day  he  looked  so  pale  and  wan,  so  thin,  and  evidently  was  so 
enfeebled,  I  had  a  premonition  I  should  never  sec  him  again, 
should  never  more  look  upon  his  face  or  grasp  his  hand. 

For  many  years  I  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  Whittier  when  he 
was  the  guest  of  our  mutual  friends,  the  Sewalls,  at  their  delightful 
home  in  Melrose.  lie  was  very  fond  of  "the  dear  Sewalls,"  as  we 
were  wont  to  call  them.  "  A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath  "  than 

37 


Harriet   Winslow    Scwall.   and    sonic    of   her   poems    Mr.   \YhiUier   very 
often  quoted,  especially  the  "  \\'iltl   Columbine,"  and  the  one  beginning, 

"\Vhythus  longing  —  thus  forever  sighing?" 

which   is   in    nearly  all  the  collections  of  American  poetry. 

Sometimes  when  Whittier  was  a  guest  in  their  pleasant  home  in 
Melrose,  they  would  invite  some  of  their  old  friends  and  his  to  meet 
him.  I  remember  one  goodly  company  that  sat  around  the  fire  one 
evening  long  ago,  and  told  stories  and  experiences  of  the  days  that 
tried  men's  souls.  \Vhittier,  Garrison,  Wendell  Phillips,  Lydia  Maria 
Child,  Lucretia  Mott,  Theodore  Weld,  were  there.  Garrison,  who  had 
had  the  most  bitter  experience  of  all,  his  life  often  imperilled,  a  price 
set  upon  his  head  by  the  exasperated  Southerners,  told  us  of  some 
indignities  that  he  had  suffered,  that  were  untold  before,  even  to  those 
who,  like  Whittier  and  Sewall,  had  helped  him  with  pen  and 
purse  from  the  first.  Some  of  us  were  startled  at  the  revelations  he 
made  that  memorable  evening.  Phillips,  too,  told  his  stories  of  in 
furiated  mobs  and  social  ostracism.  "  Boston  gave  me  the  cold 
shoulder,"  said  he,  "from  the  hour  when  in  Faneuil  Hall  I  rebuked 
James  T.  Austin  ;  and  Boston  also  ostraci/ed  Charles  Simmer  for  his 
position  against  slavery,  to  her  everlasting  shame  be  it  spoken  ! 
Mrs.  Child  told  us  of  the  discourteous  action  of  the  trustees  of  the 
Boston  Athenaeum  in  withdrawing  from  her  the  complimentary  ticket 
to  make  use  of  the  library  and  gallery,  bestowed  upon  her  after  she 
had  written  "  Philothea."  The  occasion  of  this  act  of  most  repre 
hensible  rudeness  was  owing  to  her  having  written  a  book  against 
slavery  ! 

Whittier  related  an  account  of  a  mob  that  he  encountered  in  New 
Hampshire,  with  a  friend  of  his  whose  name  I  forget.  They  barely 
managed  to  escape,  and  years  afterward  he  met  a  stranger  who  intro 
duced  himself  and  confessed  to  him  with  deepest  contrition  that  he 
was  the  ringleader  of  that  mob,  and  that  if  he  had  not  escaped  with 
his  friend  they  would  have  been  tarred  and  feathered  !  He  also  told 
us  some  ludicrous  incidents  and  stories  of  the  "  come-outers,"  as  they 
were  called,  and  of  those  "  inevitable  lunatics  "  that  always  appeared, 
like  Abby  Folsom  (that  "flea  of  conventions"  as  Emerson  called 
her)  and  Father  Lamson,  with  his  huge  Sairey  Gamp  umbrella,  who 

38 


brandished  it  as  they  harangued  the  crowd  at  the  conventions.  I 
recall  one  story  at  which  we  all  laughed  heartily,  and  \Vhitticr  most 
of  all  as  he  told  it.  "  \Ve  had  a  meeting  in  Tremont  Temple,  a  very 
storm\'  one  ;  the  speakers  had  been  scathing  in  their  denunciations  of 
slaveholders,  and  recreant  Northern  statesmen  in  Congress.  There 
were  main"  bitter  pro-slavery  men  in  the  audience  ;  the  mob  spirit  was 
aroused  ;  it  looked  as  if  blood  might  be  shed.  Garrison,  whose 
head  was  as  bald  then  as  it  is  now,  sat  on  the  platform  beside  William 
H.  Burleigh,  whose  hair  fell  in  heavy  masses  to  his  shoulders.  A  negro 
sat  near  them,  who  wished  to  speak,  but  the  noisy  mob  would  not  allow 
it.  Suddenly,  during  a  lull  in  the  uproar,  a  man  in  the  back  of  the  hall 
shouted,  '  Mr.  Speaker,  Mr.  Speaker,  I  have  only  a  word  to  say.  I 
want  that  negro  to  shave  Bnrleigh,  and  make  a  wig  for  Garrison  !  ' 
Immediately  the  whole  audience  burst  into  roars  of  laughter  and  shouts 
of  applause,  which  had  the  effect  to  avert  the  danger  that  seemed  immi 
nent  to  the  speakers,  and  the}"  were  allowed  to  go  on  with  the  meeting." 
One  other  story  he  told,  saying  that  he  had  written  so  much  he  had 
forgotten  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  as  an  illustration  said  :  "  I  once  went 
to  hear  a  famous  orator,  and  he  ended  his  speech  with  a  poetical  quota 
tion.  I  clapped  my  hands  with  all  my  might,  and  the  person  next  me 
touched  me  on  the  shoulder  and  asked  if  I  knew  who  wrote  that 
verse.  '  No,  I  don't,'  I  replied  ;  '  but  it's  good  !  '  It  seems  I  had  written 
it  myself."  After  this  story  the  whole  company  vied  with  each  other 
in  telling  amusing  incidents  of  bygone  years.  Of  that  famous  corn- 
pan}'  only  one  is  living,  Theodore  D.  Weld.  Mr.  Whittier  was  among 
the  first  advocates  of  woman  suffrage,  and  was  ever  one  of  the  honored 
officers  of  the  Woman  Suffrage  Association,  of  which  James  Freeman 
Clarke,  George  William  Curtis,  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  William 
Ingersoll  Bowditch,  Lucy  Stone,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  have  been  presi 
dents.  Whittier  was  a  lifelong  friend  of  Lucy  Stone,  holding  her  in  the 
highest  esteem,  not  only  for  what  she  had  done  for  woman  suffrage, 
but  for  her  earlier  work  in  behalf  of  the  slave,  when  she  went  from 
city  to  city  and  from  town  to  town  to  lecture  against  slavery,  encoun 
tering  obloquy,  the  fur)'  of  mobs,  brutal  insults  from  brutal  men,  un 
flinchingly  walking  in  the  thorny  path  of  duty.  On  the  occasion  of  the 
celebration  of  her  sixtieth  birthday  I  wrote  an  enthusiastic  tribute  in 

39 


verse,  in  which  I  referred  to  the  first  time  I  saw  her,  and  to  an  incident 
of  the  evening  when  she  laid  her  hand  in  blessing  on  the  dusky  brow 
of  an  escaped  slave  woman,  whose  story  she  had  told  so  eloquently  as  to 
make  the  profoundest  impression.  This  incident  took  place  in  Fain-nil 
Hall  in  1849.  Mr.  \Vhittier,  having  read  the  verses  in  a  newspaper, 
wrote  thus:  "  I  write  to  thank  thee  for  thy  tribute  to  Lucy  Stone.  1 
have  always  had  a  great  admiration  for  her.  She  is  worth}-  of  all  that 
thee  say  of  her  in  thy  fine  poem." 

From  the  formation  of  the  Republican  part}'  he  was  its  stanch 
supporter,  and  always  made  an  especial  effort  to  vote.  It  was  a  great 
s^rief  to  him  that  some  of  his  dearest  friends,  with  lifelong  devotion 

o  o 

to  humanity  and  the  right,  should  leave  the  Republican  part}-,  whose 
record,  both  before  and  after  the  war,  had  been  that  of  which  the}'  all 
had  a  right  to  be  proud.  To  leave  that  part}'  because  corruption  had  crept 
in  and  corrupt  men  had  been  placed  in  office,  and  affiliate  with  a  party 
whose  Southern  leaders  and  Northern  "  copperheads  "  had  plunged  the 
nation  into  all  the  horrors  of  a  civil  war,  whose  record  on  the  slavery 
question  had  been  so  bad  a  one,  seemed  to  him  inexplicable.  "  \Yhy 
did  the}'  not  stay  in  our  party  and  reform  it,  instead  of  joining  one  so 
much  more  corrupt?"  he  exclaimed  to  me  one  day  in  the  summer  of 
1884.  That  the  sons  of  Garrison,  that  Samuel  Sewall,  that  Freeman 
Clarke,  Lowell,  Higginson,  had  "  gone  over  to  the  enemy,"  as  he- 
expressed  it,  gave  him  great  pain. 

The  return  of  Mr.  Sewall  to  the  Republican  fold  gladdened  his 
heart,  and  when  the  Transcript  swung  back  to  the  Republican  side  he 
rejoiced  greatly.  \\  ho  can  forget  the  letters  of  Whittier  and  Kdward 
FLvcrett  Male  addressed  to  the  Republicans  during  the  campaign  of  1884? 
After  the  election  of  Cleveland  in  November,  I  received  the  following 
letter  from  Whittier  :  — 

"  DANVKKS,  llth  mo.  ±>d,  1SS1. 

"  DKAR  KKIKNII, —  I  ought  to  have  thanked  thee  before  for  thy  graceful  and  kind 
verses,  —  a  tribute,  I  fear,  quite  undeserved. 

"I  quite  agree  with  thee  in  deploring  the  folly  of  the  Independents.  I  could  not  read 
Sewall's  letter  or  James  Freeman  C'larke's  speeches !  and  the  suicidal  course  of  the  Prohibi 
tionists  vexes  me.  Hut  for  them  Blaine  would  have  been  elected.  What  a  combination  of 
rum-sellers  and  the  John-Johns  !  I  am  greatly  sorry  for  the  defeat  of  Cabot  Lodge  :  but  Massa  - 
chusetts,  on  the  whole,  has  done  well,  for  which  let  us  be  thankful. 

"  I  am  truly  thy  friend, 

"JOHN    G.    WIiriTIKR." 

40 


Soon  after  the  death  of  \Vhittier  I  heard  a  sermon  from  a 
\\-ell-known  clergyman  of  the  Unitarian  faith,  in  which  he  called 
attention  to  the  fact  that  nearly  if  not  all  of  our  great  poets  were 
Unitarians,  vi/.,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  Lowell,  Holmes. 
Whittier,  if  we  may  use  the  expression,  was  a  Unitarian  or  Hicksite 
Quaker,  as  was  Lucretia  Mott,  who  was  so 
broad  and  so  opposed  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
so-called  Orthodox  Friends  that  in  some 
quarters  she  was  ostracized  and  regarded  as 
a  heretic. 

In  a  recent  letter,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
has    written    the    most   beautiful    and    tender 
tribute  to  Whittier.      He  says  of  his  influence- 
on    the    religious    thought    of   the    American 
people  :  "  It  has  been   far  greater,   I   believe, 
than  that  of  the  occupant  of  any  pulpit.      It 
is  not  by  any  attack  upon  the 
faith  of  any  Christian   fellow-        iBf  VHrfl M 
ship   that  he   did   service   for 
the    liberal    thought    of    our 
community.     .     .     .     Of   late 
years    I    have    been    in    close 
sympathy  with   him,   not   es 
pecially    as    an    Abolitionist, 
not    merely    through    human 
sympathies,  but  as  belonging 
with  me  to  the  '  Church  with 
out     a     Bishop,'     Which     Seems  Whittier's  Last  Resting  Place. 

the  natural  complement  of  a  '  State  without  a  King.'  I  mean  the 
church  which  lives  by  no  formula,  which  believes  in  a  loving  Father 
and  trusts  him  for  the  final  well-being  of  the  whole  spiritual  universe 
which  he  has  called  into  being.  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  reached  the 
hearts  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  especially  of  New-Englanders  para 
lyzed  by  the  teachings  of  Ldwards,  as  Burns  kindled  the  souls  of 
Scotchmen  palsied  by  the  dogmas  of  Thomas  Boston  and  his  fellow- 
sectaries.  When  Whittier  preaches  his  lifelong  sermon  in  'Songs  of 


296,Beacon  Street. 


Love  and  Hope,'  I   think  of  the  immortal  legacy  he  has  left  his  coun 
trymen,  and   repeat  his   own  words  as  applied  to   Roger  Williams :  — 

'  Still  echo  in  the  hearts  of  men 

The  words  that  thou  hast  spoken; 
No  forge  of  hell  can  weld  again 
The  fetters  thou  hast  broken. 

'  The  pilgrim  needs  a  pass  no  more 

From  Roman  or  Genevan; 
Thought-free  no  ghostly  tollman  keeps 
Henceforth  the  road  to  heaven.'  " 

In  reply  to  my  note  written  to  Dr.  Holmes  after  reading  this  tribute 
to  Whittier,  he  wrote:  "I  am  glad  that  my  letter  about  Whittier  met 
your  approval.  In  the  midst  of  the  doctrinal  fights  and  squabbles 
going  on  all  around  us,  it  is  good  to  remember  the  sweet  lessons  of 
charity  for  all  kinds  of  beliefs  and  honest  unbeliefs  which  filled  the 
loving  soul  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier." 

Soon  after  Whittier  had  written  "  The  Eternal  Goodness,"  I  wrote 
him  that  it  contained  my  creed.  In  reply  he  wrote  :  "  I  am  glad  that 
'  The  Eternal  Goodness  '  contains  thy  creed.  Others  have  written  me 
the  same.  I  am  not  much  of  a  sectarian  and  care  little  for  creeds,  but 
I  do  love  to  hear  the  Quaker  speech  and  see  the  Quaker  dress.  '  My 
heart  warms  to  the  Tartan.'  ' 

My  presentiment  on  his  last  birthday  proved  a  true  one.  I  never 
saw  Whittier  again.  \Vhen  I  returned  from  Europe  I  heard  of  his 
illness  and  then  of  his  death,  which  took  place  on  September  7,  1892. 
He  died  peacefully  in  serene  faith,  surrounded  by  loving  relatives,  and  on 
a  perfect  autumn  day  his  worn-out  frame  was  laid  beside  the  dust  of 
his  mother  and  sister.  In  his  own  tender  words  from  "  Snow-Bound  " 
we  can  say  :  - 

"  I  low  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent." 


43 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


ROBERT   BROWNING  IN  HIS    HOME. 

URIXG  the  summer  of  1889  I  was  the  guest  of  an 
acquaintance  in  London  who  had  been  the  lifelong 
friend  of  Robert  Browning  and  his  sister;  and  when 
she  asked  me  who  were-  the  people  I  cared  most  to 
meet  in  Kngland,  I  replied  instantly,  "  Robert  Browning 
and  Mr.  Gladstone." 
The  sister-in-law  of  my  hostess  (the  Countess  of  Rothes)  was  the 
Miss  Haworth  to  whom  so  many  of  the  letters  of  Browning  were 
written  and  first  given  to  the  public  in  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr's  "  Life  of 
Robert  Browning."  Miss  Haworth's  exquisite  pen-and-ink  illustrations 
of  some  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  were  hung  upon  the  walls  of  her 
sister's  drawing-room,  and  were  among  her  priceless  art  treasures. 
Miss  Haworth  died  main'  years  before  Browning,  and  he  spoke  with 
tender  regret  of  her  loss.  As  I  look  back  upon  the  summer  of  1889  in 
London,  two  red-letter  days  appear  in  my  calendar  of  enjoyment:  one 
is  that  of  the  golden  wedding  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gladstone;  the  other, 
that  on  which  I  first  sa\v  Robert  Browning  in  his  charming  home,  for 
it  was  indeed  a  great  pleasure  to  see  him  there,  so  kindly  was  the 
cordial  greeting,  so  genuine  the  hospitality.  Miss  Browning,  his  sister, 
who  ever  after  the  death  of  his  wife  presided  over  his  household,  bore 
a  great  resemblance  to  him,  and  was  a  most  interesting  person.  It  was 
through  her  kind  invitation  that  I  visited  there.  The  home  of  the 
Brownings  was  in  South  Kensington,  No.  29  De  Ye  re  Gardens.  The 
house  was  a  large  one,  and  most  artistically  and  attractively  furnished. 
The  library,  with  the  collection  of  rare  books  and  art  treasures  of  the 
poet,  was  of  the  greatest  interest.  The  drawing-room  was  spacious,  and 
hanging  upon  the  walls  were  soft-hued  tapestries.  Much  of  the  furni 
ture  was  of  Yenetian  make  and  beautifully  carved.  There  were  many 

45 


fine  old  pictures,  and  some  by  distinguished  modern  painters.  Of  several 
busts,  that  of  Mrs.  Browning,  by  William  \V.  Story,  was  most  notice 
able  ;  a  bowl  of  rare  china  was  always  beside  it,  filled  with  flowers. 
The  tables  were  covered  with  books,  and  calling  my  attention  to  them, 
Mr.  Browning  said  :  "  I  have  man}'  friends  among  the  authors,  and 
they  kindly  send  me  copies  of  their  books;  it  keeps  me  very  bus}-  to 
read  them  all  ;  however,  I  do  all  that  I  can  in  that  direction.  I  wish 
the}'  were  all  as  good  as  this  one  of  Wentworth  Higginson's.  Do  you 
know  him?"  I  replied  that  I  had  known  him  main-  years,  and  liked 
him  and  his  writings  exceedingly.  Then  he  said,  "When  you  go  home, 
tell  him  I  said  he  was  not  only  a  charming  poet,  but  a  charming  fellow 
to  know."  He  asked  many  questions  about  the  people  whom  he  knew 
in  Boston,  and  spoke  with  warm  interest  of  some  of  them,  especially  of 
Dr.  Holmes,  expressing  profound  sympathy  for  him  in  the  crushing 
grief  which  had  befallen  him  in  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  daughter  since 
his  visit  to  England.  "  How  desolate  he  must  be!"  he  exclaimed; 
"  Mrs.  Sargent  was  so  devoted  to  her  father,  and  was  such  a  cheery 
little  woman!"  He  talked  much  of  Longfellow,  Emerson,  and  of  Haw 
thorne  and  his  wife.  "  What  a  remarkable  person  Mrs.  Hawthorne  was, 
and  Una  was  almost  a  genius.  After  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  death  I  went 
very  often  to  see  Una  and  Rose,  to  assist  them  in  arranging  their 
father's  manuscript  for  publication."  After  relating  some  interesting 
incidents  about  the  family,  he  added,  "All  those  Hawthorne  children 
had  marked  ability.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  with  such  a  parent 
age?" 

He  spoke  most  affectionately  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  and  of  his 
delight  in  his  writings.  "The  Commemoration  Ode "  he  regarded  as 
one  of  his  best  poems,  "  The  Present  Crisis "  was  another,  ami  he 
repeated  the  line, 

"  Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  wrong  forever  on  the  throne," 

with  great  expression,  adding,  "That  has  the  heroic  ring:  that 
line  will  live!"  He  warmly  praised  the  "  Biglow  Papers"  for  their 
humor,  and  asked,  "  Are  you  familiar  with  the  poem  he  wrote  at 
the  time  of  his  first  wife's  death,  called  'After  the  Burial'?"  I  replied 
that  I  knew  ever}'  word  of  it.  "  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  repeat 

46 


it,  I  cannot  recall  it  all?"  After  I  had  clone  so,  he  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  then  with  much  feeling  exclaimed,  "  That's  a  great  poem  ; 
what  a  wail  of  despair,  but  how  deep  and  true  it  is  !  "  "  Did  you  ever 
see  Maria  Lowell?"  he  asked.  I  told  him  I  used  to  see  her  occasion- 
all}-  in  the  days  of  the  anti-slavery  warfare,  that  I  had  never  for 
gotten  her  face,  and  added,  "  Its  great  beauty  was  that  of  expression." 
"  So  I  have  been  told,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  speaking  of  beauty,  I  must 
show  you  a  photograph  of  my  son's  wife."  He  then  showed  me 
photographs  of  his  son  and  daughter-in-law.  When  I  expressed  my 
admiration  of  the  latter,  he  gave  them  both  to  me,  and  said  :  "  If  you 
show  them  to  any  of  my  friends  in  Boston,  say  that  one  does  not  get 
the  faintest  idea  from  the  photograph  of  the  beauty  of  her  coloring  or 
of  the  lovely  tints  of  her  hair.  She  is  an  American,  and  we  are  very 
proud  of  her.  She  is  a  descendant  of  Gov.  Paddington,  and  has  good 
blood  in  her  veins." 

I  was,  of  course,  delighted  to  have  the  photographs,  but  like 
Oliver  Twist,  I  dared  to  ask  for  "  more"  !  I  ventured  to  inquire  if  he 
had  a  good  picture  of  himself,  and  if  I  might  see  it.  Miss  Browning 
replied,  "  Yes,  we  have  one  just  taken  ;  it  is  the  best  one  he  has  had 
for  years,  and  if  you  like  it  you  shall  have  one."  After  looking  at  it 
I  said,  "It  is  the  best  I  have  ever  seen,  the  eyes  and  the  expression 
are  wonderfully  good."  As  Mr.  Browning  was  writing  his  name  and 
the  date  under  it,  he  said,  "  If  you  show  this  to  Dr.  Holmes,  tell  him 
the  old  fellow  looks  like  that  now."  The  next  week  when  I  was  there 
at  five-o'clock  tea  he  gave  me  another  photograph,  a  much  larger  one, 
in  profile  ;  and  although  that  is  interesting,  the  smaller  one  is  better  as 
a  likeness.  In  looking  over  my  autograph  album  he  made  running 
comments  on  the  poets  as  he  read,  Parsons,  Whittier,  Holmes,  Aldrich, 
Mrs.  Howe,  Helen  Hunt,  Mrs.  Deland,  Howells,  Boyle  O'Reilly,  and 
all  the  rest  of  them.  "What  verse  of  mine  shall  I  write?"  When 
I  replied,  I  should  like  something  from  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,"  he 
wrote  :  — 

"  All  that  is  at  all 
Lasts  ever  past  recall : 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure." 


47 


He  wrote  this    on  the    page  opposite    to    that    on  which    Longfellow 
had  written  a  translation  from  the  Italian:  — 

"  Che  sembra  mi  alma,  doves  amor  non  stan/a, 
Casa  di  notte  sen/.a  foco,  o  face.'" 

Longfellow's  translation  runs:  — 

•'The  soul,  where  love  ahideth  not  resembles 
A  house  by  nijjht  without  or  lire  or  torch.'' 


P         ! 

Lv-c^f      to      Ae^GJtts 


FACSIMILE  OF  LONGFELLOW'S  COUPLET. 

When  he  caught  sight  of  Longfellow's  lines,  he  exclaimed,  "  Long 
fellow  didn't  make  the  rhyme.  I'll  try  my  hand  at  it,"  And  as  quick 
as  thought  wrote:  — 

"  What  seems  a  soul  where  Love's  outside  the  porch. 
A  house  by  nifjht  with  neither  lire  nor  torch.'' 

Sa\'ing  gleefully,  "  I've  done  it:    there's  my  rhyme! 

He  asked  me  one  day  if  I  belonged  to  a  Browning  Club,  and  was 
greatly  amused  when  I  told  him  I  belonged  to  two,  one  that  met  weekly, 
—  a  club  of  ladies,  to  read  and  stud\'  his  poems, —  and  another  that 
met  monthly  at  the  Brunswick,  having  a  membership  of  nearly  two 
hundred,  and  of  which  his  friend  Col.  T.  W.  Higginson  was  the  affable 
and  accomplished  president.  In  reply  to  his  questionings,  I  told  him 
of  some  of  the  fine  essays  and  readings  we  had  listened  to  there, 
notably  those  from  Mr.  Hayes  and  Mr.  Riddle.  It  was  then  he  said, 

48 


^      V* 


*J 


<  < 


"  From  all  that  I  have  heard  from  my  friends  in  Boston,  they  regarded 
Mr.  Levi  Thaxter  as  the  best  reader  and  interpreter  of  my  poems  you 
have  had  there.  Did  you  know  him?"  My  reply  was  that  I  had 
attended  his  readings  for  years.  He  was  much  amused  with  the 
picture  sent  him  from  Boston  representing  an  Englishman  who  was 
approaching  Boston  in  a  railway  train,  asking  the  conductor, 
"  What  is  this  strange  sound  I  hear?  "  the  conductor's  reply  was,  "Oh  ! 
that  is  the  Bostonians  reading  Browning." 

He  was  very  proud  of  the  work  of  his  son,  who  is  devoted  to  art, 
and  showed  me  a  portrait  of  himself,  which  I  did  not  like,  and  another 
of  his  friend  Alfred  Dommctt,  of  whom  he  wrote  as  "  \Varing."  This 
he  seemed  especially  to  like,  and  told  me  how  precious  it  was  to  him. 
As  he  looked  at  the  "  counterfeit  presentment"  of  the  friend  who  was 
so  dear  to  him,  and  told  me  of  the  "  irreparable  loss,"  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears  and  his  voice  was  tremulous  with  emotion.  One  day  when 
I  went  in  after  a  walk  he  said,  "You  have  just  missed  Miss  — 
(a  mutual  acquaintance),  "she  has  been  here  more  than  an  hour." 
I  replied  impulsively,  "I'm  glad  she  has  gone,  she  is  such  a  bore!" 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  she  is  a  bore,  but  my  sister  and  I  bear  with  her 
because  she  lovecl  that  dear  woman  so,"  -  -  pointing  to  Story's  bust  of 
his  wife. 

Browning's  portrait  has  been  painted  by  many  artists,  but  of  all 
that  I  saw  in  England,  I  liked  best  the  one  by  Watts,  and  that  painted 
by  Felix  Moschelles  is  next  in  merit.  If  Sir  John  Millais  could  have 
painted  as  fine  a  portrait  of  Browning  as  is  his  of  Gladstone  (which 
was  painted  for  some  of  the  ladies  of  England,  to  present  to  Mrs. 
Gladstone  on  their  golden  wedding  day),  what  a  treasure  it  would  be 
for  this  generation  and  those  that  are  to  come  !  In  speaking  of  his 
father,  Browning  said  :  "  I  inherit  my  vigor  of  constitution  from  him. 
He  had  a  remarkable  physique,  and  he  lived  to  the  age  of  eighty-four, 
without  ever  having  had  a  day's  illness.  My  father  helped  me  to  do 
my  best.  When  I  think  of  so  many  authors  who  have  had  to  struggle 
with  such  gigantic  difficulties,  I  have  very  little  reason  to  be  proud  of 
my  achievements.  My  path  was  smoothed  for  me  by  my  father's  assist 
ance.  He  always  had  the  courage  of  his  convictions,  and  he  sacrificed 
a  fortune  to  them  ;  he  so  hated  slavery  that  he  left  India  on  that  ac- 

49 


count."  As  lie  said  this,  he  manifested  much  feeling,  and  I  could  see- 
that  he  had  an  intensely  emotional  nature.  The  grasp  of  his  hand,  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  were  full  of  psychic  force.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend  after 
I  had  made  my  visit  at  the  Brownings',  I  wrote:  "The  whole  room 
seemed  filled  with  his  presence.  His  personal  magnetism  is  immense  : 

he  is  full  of  what,  for  want  of 
a  better  expression,  I  must 
call  psychic  force,  and  he  is  a 
wonderful  talker." 

In  speaking  of  the  Brown 
ing  Clubs  in  this  country,  he 
said,  "  It  gives  me  great 
pleasure  to  hear  how  main' 
people  are  reading  and  study 
ing  my  poems";  then  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye  he  said, 
"  One  good  woman  over 
there,  she  was  not  from  Bos 
ton,  however,  covered  four 
sheets  with  questions, —  did 
I  mean  this,  or  this,  or  that 
( always  wide  of  the  mark,  I 
assure  you),  —  and  at  last 
ended  with  a  charge  of  ob 
scurity,  and  asked  if  I  would 
write  and  tell  her  what  I  did 
mean  in  certain  poems  which 
she  named.  I  never  intend 
to  be  discourteous  to  any 
earnest  inquirer,  but  I  did  not  reply  to  her  letter."  He  delighted  to 
recall  the  stories  he  had  heard  from  some  of  his  friends  who  had 
struggled  so  hard  to  understand  his  "  Sordello,"  and  would  relate  the 
funniest  ones  with  great  glee.  He  told  me  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  confessed 
to  him  that  she  had  tackled  the  book  and  had  been  ignominiously 
baffled  in  her  attempt  to  comprehend  it,  and  also  said  Carlyle  wrote  to 
him,  "  My  wife  has  read  through  '  Sordello'  without  being  able  to  make- 


story's  Bust  of  Mrs.  Browning. 


out  whether  Sordcllo  was  a  man,  or  a  city,  or  a  book  !  "  He  had  been 
told  that  Tennyson  had  tried  to  read  it,  and  in  bitterness  of  spirit  ad 
mitted  that  there  were  only  two  lines  in  it  that  he  understood,  and  they 
were  both  lies ;  they  were  the  opening  and  the  closing  ones, 

"  Who  will,  may  hear  Sordello's  story  told,  " 

and 

"  Who  would,  has  heard  Sordello's  story  told." 

When  I  told  him  that  those  stories  were  quite  new  to  me,  but  that  1 
had  heard  the  very  amusing  one  told  of  Douglas  Jerrold  and  his  wife, 
he  laughed  heartily  and  exclaimed,  "  That  is  the  best  story  of  all."  In 
regard  to  the  charge  so  often  made  against  him  of  wilful  obscurity,  he 
once  wrote  :  "  Having  hitherto  done  my  utmost  in  the  art  to  which  my 
life  is  a  devotion,  I  cannot  engage  to  increase  the  effort,  but  I  conceive 
there  may  be  helpful  light  as  well  as  reassuring  warmth  in  the  attention 
and  sympathy  T  gratefully  acknowledge." 

It  is  now  forty-five  years  since  I  first  heard  a  poem  of  Browning's 
read.  It  wras  "A  Blot  in  the  Scutcheon."  So  full  of  power  and 
pathos  was  it  that  I  was  profoundly  impressed.  I  have  since  heard  it 
read  often  and  often,  but  the  masterly  interpretation  of  it  by  Levi 
Thaxter  stands  out  most  vividly  in  my  memory.  I  can  recall  every 
tone  of  his  voice,  every  shade  of  feeling  as  he  spoke,  with  a  sob  in 
his  throat,  those  thrilling  words  of  Mildred's:  — 

"I  —  I  was  so  young  ! 

Besides  I  loved  him  —  Thorold,  and  I  had 

No  mother;    God  forgot  me:  so  I  fell." 

In  1842,  Charles  Dickens,  to  whom  John  Forster  had  sent  the 
manuscript  of  "  A  Blot  in  the  Scutcheon  "  to  read,  wrote  :  "  Browning's 
play  has  thrown  me  into  a  perfect  passion  of  sorrow.  To  say  that 
there  is  in  its  subject  anything  save  what  is  lovely,  true,  deeply  affect 
ing,  full  of  the  best  emotion,  is  to  say  there  is  no  light  in  the  sun  and 
no  heat  in  blood.  I  know  nothing  that  is  so  affecting,  nothing  in  any 
book  I  have  ever  read,  as  Mildred's  recurrence  to  that,  '  I  was  so 
young!  ...  I  had  no  mother.'  Tell  Browning  that  I  believe  from  my 
soul  there  is  no  man  living  (and  not  many  dead)  that  could  produce 
such  a  work."  This  was  written  by  Dickens  to  Forster  forty-nine  years 
ago,  long  before  Browning's  genius  had  found  recognition.  To-day  all 


the   great  thinkers  of  the   age   have   crowned   him  with  laurel.      Arch- 

»>  o 

deacon  Farrer  told  me  last  summer  that  he  ranked  him  as  the  great 
Christian  poet  of  the  century.  This  is  surely  high  praise  from  one  of 
the  greatest  preachers  of  England.  Cannot  Browning  be  called  with 
truth  the  poet  of  humanity?  He  has  indeed  measured  the  heights 
and  sounded  the  depths.  In  dramatic  delineation  of  the  subtle  phases 
of  human  experience,  of  the  passions,  joys,  and  woes  of  life,  who  can 
equal  him?  One  of  the  finest  tributes  ever  paid  him  was  that  of  his 
old  friend,  Walter  Savage  Landor,  to  whom  his  devotion  was  so  great  :  — 

"  Since  Chaucer  was  alive  anil  hale, 
No  man  has  walked  our  roads  with  step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse." 

Browning's  faith  in  immortality,  and  in  the  Power  which  is  his  ex 
pression  for  Divine  Love,  is  best  given  in  that  remarkable  poem 
entitled  "  Reverie,"  where  these  lines  occur:  — 

"  I  have  faith  such  end  shall  lie; 
From  the  first  Power  was —  I  knew. 
Life  has  made  clear  to  me 
That,  strive  for  hut  clearer  view 
Love  were  as  plain  to  see." 

What  vigor  there  is  in  that  marvellous  Kpilogue,  the  last  poem 
that  he  wrote  :  — 

'•One  who  never  turned  his  back,  hut  marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 

Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would  triumph. 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  battled  to  light  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 


"  No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work  time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be  — 
•  Strive  and  thrive'  cry  Speed — fight  on  —  fare  ever 
There  as  here  !  " 

The  most  beautiful  of  all  his  poems  was  written  shortly  after  his 
wife's  death,  and  called  "  Prospicc."  His  unshaken  belief  in  reunion 
after  death  is  given  full  expression  in  the  last  lines:  — 


"Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast 
O  thou  soul  of  my  suul,  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 
And  with  God  he  the  rest." 

For  versatiliy,  Browning  has  been  by  many  of  his  admirers  ranked 
next  to  Shakespeare.  His  learning  was  so  wide,  so  profound,  in  a 
word  he  was  so  great,  that  he  will  hold  a  very  high  place  in  the  final 
judgment  of  literature,  in  English  poetry.  Although  some  of  his 
work  is  open  to  the  charge  of  obscurity,  yet  all  through  his  poems 
are  verses  which  are  as  limpid  as  any  of  Shelley's  or  those  of  Keats. 
Some  of  his  lyrics  arc  clear,  vivid  word-pictures  that  are  not  at  all 
above  the  ordinary  understanding.  How  many  children  have  listened 
spellbound  to  the  "  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  or  with  delight  to  "  How 
they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  "  ;  beautiful  "  Evelyn 
Hope,"  the  songs  of  Pippa,  "Oh!  to  be  in  England  now  that 
April's  there,"  are  poems  as  clear  as  sunlight  and  familiar  as  house 
hold  words  in  countless  homes  the  wide  world  over. 

Browning's  powers  were  unimpaired  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life.  In 
the  autumn  of  1889  he  went  to  Venice,  fair  Venice,  that  he  loved  so 
well,  and  there  on  December  12,  1889,  he  died  in  the  arms  of  his  be 
loved  son,  in  the  light  of  a  world-wide  fame.  His  flower-laden 
bier,  followed  by  a  fleet  of  gondolas,  floated  in  the  pomp  of  sunlight 
through  the  "watery  gates  of  Venice  "  to  the  Chapel  of  Saint  Michael, 
where  the  casket  was  placed  temporarily.  Later  his  grave  was  made 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  just  below  Chaucer's,  and  near  to  Spencer's 
resting  place.  England's  greatest  and  best  were  assembled  in  the  dim, 
vast  aisles  of  the  sacred  Abbey  to  do  honor  to  the  great  poet.  One 
of  the  most  impressive  features  of  the  service  was  the  chanting  by  that 
world-famous  choir  of  Mrs.  Browning's  beautiful  poem,  "  He  giveth  His 
Beloved  Sleep."  Outside  the  Abbey  a  vast  crowd  was  assembled  ;  there 
were  his  humble  admirers,  the  artisans,  the  poor  workers  of  London, 
who  came  with  their  flowers  and  sprigs  of  laurel  to  throw  before  the 
hearse.  One  pathetic  incident  showed  the  affectionate  regard  in  which 
he  was  held  by  the  workingmen.  A  wan-faced,  hollow-eyed  man  was 
seen  to  shiver  with  emotion  and  timidly  pull  from  his  sleeve  a  large 
white  chrysanthemum,  throwing  it  before  the  coffin  as  it  was  borne 
inward,  then  weeeping  passionately  he  disappeared  into  the  crowd. 

53 


LOUISA    MAY    ALCOTT. 

Rememb'ring  all  her  past, 
Heroic  to  the  last, 
"  Weep  not  for  her,"  we  said, 
"The  noble  woman  dead." 

Nor  mourn  we,  but  rejoice, 
And  with  unfaltering  voice. 
The  vapor  we  call  life 
Vanished,  —  and  all  the  strife 

With  pain,  relentless  thorn, 
That  of  the  flesh  is  born, 
The  heritage  of  earth, 
Besetting  us  from  birth. 

Ere  Death's  sharp  summons  blew, 
Each  warning  pang  she  knew, 
Willing  to  die,  or  live, 
Her  life  to  others  give. 

She  won  the  true  success, 
She  lived  to  love,  to  bless; 
Eaithful  unto  the  end, 
Farewell,  beloved  friend. 

Humanity's  great  woes 
Exchanged  for  heaven's  repose; 
A  spirit's  glad  release, 
To  never-ending  peace. 

With  one  she  held  so  dear, 
Translated  to  that  sphere 
Whose  glory  none  may  tell ; 
With  her  —  with  him  — 'tis  well. 


March  8,  1888. 


54 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITT1ER. 


Xo  purer  record  have  we  seen 
Than  his  upon  whose  bier  to-day 

With  mourning  hearts  and  reverent  mien 
These  lilies  white  and  fair  we  lay; 

Fit  types  are  they  of  spotless  life 

Through  nearly  fourscore  years  and  ten, 

With  every  manly  virtue  rife, 

Peaceful,  yet  strong  with  speech  and  pen. 

Ilis  verse  is  known  in  every  land; 

IJy  countless  lips  his  hymns  are  sung; 
From  P>ay  State  to  Pacific  strand 

His  words  have  like  a  prophet's  rung. 

When  Slavery's  cloud,  so  fraught  with  fate, 
Hung  black  upon  the  nation's  sky, 

From  Casco  liay  to  Golden  Gate 
Was  heard  a  spirit-stirring  cry; 

And  notes  of  warning,  clear  and  strong, 
Rang  out  when  Whittier  grasped  the  pen, 

Till  Right,  triumphant  over  Wrong, 

I 'praised  the  slaves  and  made  them  men. 

Through  seas  of  blood  and  Treason's  hate, 

Justice  at  last  o'ercame  her  foe; 
Still  did  his  pen  their  wrongs  relate, 

That  rights  of  freemen  they  should  know. 

No  smallest  leaf  can  we  to-day- 
Add  to  the  green  of  laurel  crown, 

Only  our  grateful  tribute  pay 

To  one  who  meekly  wore  renown, 

And  tell  how  much  his  songs  have  wrought 
In  hours  of  pain  and  days  of  gloom, 

What  balm,  what  blessing  they  have  brought, 
I  low  tilled  our  lives  with  light  and  bloom. 

Can  sculptor  carve  or  limner  paint 
"  The  Hero  "  as  his  pen  hath  done. 

The  "  Cadmus  of  the  blind,"  the  saint 
Who  light  from  deepest  darkness  won; 

55 


The  lovely  "  Playmate  "  neath  the  pine  — 
"  The  pines  so  dark  tin  Ramoth  hill  "  - 

The  bashful  boy  who  fed  the  kine 

And  plucked  the  flowers  of  Folly  Mill? 

We  see  the  sweetbrier  and  the  flowers, 
And  hear  the  moaning  of  the  pines. 

And  singing  through  the  golden  hours 
The  birds  atilt  on  swaying  vines. 

We  see  the  dear  New  England  home, 
The  tender  scenes  in  "  Snow-Bound"  given; 

The  tyrant  'neath  Saint  Peter's  dome, 
Whose  papal  cloak  his  scorn  hath  riven 

Till  all  men  view  his  hidden  wrong 

Who  bound  on  Rome  her  "  cast-off  weight  ' 

A  figure  drawn  in  colors  strong, 
Forever  for  the  world  to  hate. 

"  Eternal  Goodness  "  holds  a  creed 

Embodied  in  a  holy  hymn 
To  comfort  hearts  in  sorest  need 

When  eyes  with  grief  and  loss  are  dim. 

I  low  vain  the  effort  to  rehearse 

His  gifts  to  us  of  tongue  and  pen  — 

The  wondrous  power  of  his  verse, 
His  lifelong  work  for  fellow-men. 

In  loyalty  to  all  that's  good, 

In  stern  rebuke  of  every  wrong, 
And  manly  faith  in  womanhood, 

Without  a  peer  he  stands  in  song. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 

By  land  and  sea  'twas  flashed  to  every  shore, 
From  fair  old  Venice  the  sad  tidings  spread, 

England's  great  poet  is,  alas  !   no  more, 

World-wide  the  grief  for  Robert  Browning  dead  ! 

Dead  !   after  more  than  threescore  years  and  ten 
Of  noble  life  blessed  with  pure  love  and  sweet, 

Gone  from  the  places  and  the  sight  of  men, 
C  fathered  like  ripened  corn  or  sheaf  of  wheat. 

No  loss  of  vigor,  all  undimmed  the  thought, 
Matchless  the  lustre  of  his  latest  verse, 

With  gems  that  are  imperishable  fraught; 

Since  Shakespeare's  whose  so  many-hued  and  terse? 

Translated  now  into  the  higher  sphere, 

Weep  not  for  him,  O  ye,  who  loved  him  best, 

United  there  to  her  he  held  most  dear, 

Soul  of  his  soul,  "and  with  dod  be  the  rest !  "  * 

From  "  Prospire  ":  — 

"  Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast 

O  tlion  soul  of  my  soul,  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  C.od  be  the  rest !  " 


57 


THOMAS    WILLIAM     PARSONS. 


LINES 

\VK1III.N    AFTFK    KF.AI>IN>;    "sl'KSl'M    CORUA,"    THK    I  .AM!    1'oK.M    OF    THOMAS    \YII.I.IAM    I'ARSONS. 

Whence  came  the  peace?     In  truth  thou  knowest  now .' 

A  peace  immense  that  flooded  all  thy  soul 

When  "  Sursum  Corda"  through  the  church  did  roll, 
K'en  as  thou  knelt  and  prayed  with  lifted  brow, 
.•ls/>i'r^'c-s  nit',  and  make  as  white  as  snow 
Drifted  in  orchards  when  the  winds  do  blow. 

Asferges  me,  a  voice  began  to  sing, 

And  ( iod  to  thy  sad  soul  his  peace  did  bring. 
Soon  thy  worn  spirit,  lifted  from  its  woe, 
Made  purer  far  than  whitest  "  Wayland  snow," 

Cleaving  the  blue  with  strong,  unfettered  wings 

Soared  like  a  lark,  and  still  upsoaring  sings. 
I  )id  Dante  greet  thee  in  the  realm  divine, 
He  whose  high  genius  was  the  joy  of  thine? 

(  >ct.   1-1,  ISO'-'. 


59 


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